WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 2008
When my son, Jack, was three (five years ago…aka – a lifetime) we had this conversation in the car on the way to preschool:
Jack: Mom?
Me (driving the car): What?
Jack (with a sigh that made him seem much older – as if he’d conquered potty-training years before…which he hadn’t): It’s okay if you die.
Me (swerving for no apparent reason): WHAT?
Jack: It’s okay if you die. I’ll take care of Margaret.
(It should be noted that Margaret wisely says nothing at this point.)
Me: Um, why is it okay if I die? (Note – this is one of the things one never expects – let alone wants – to hear from their child.)
Jack: Well, Margaret can get a job as a rock star and I can support us by being a superhero Jedi.
Me (after thinking about it. there are worse things he could aspire to, after all): You get dental with that?
It was one of those precious conversations you always remember – kind of a Hallmark/Far Side moment. Now fast forward to present day, or, as it is known, the day before yesterday.
Jack: Mom. I know what I’m gonna be when I grow up.
Me (Trying to put dishes away while feeding two dogs and a guinea pig simultaneously): Oh? You aren’t going to be a four-star general then become president like Eisenhower? (Oh by the way, long story that. My son is obsessed with WWII to the point he knows as much as a Ph.D in history. Mental note – monitor his viewing of the History Channel more closely.)
Jack (shaking his head with a sigh as if he’s talking to a child): I’m going to be an assassin – like in your books.
Me (dropping dishes and dog food on the floor): What?
Jack: Well, you write about assassins and I’m in your next book as Jackson Bombay, so I’ve decided that’s what I will do.
Me: Um, Jack, it’s fiction. Mommy writes fiction. There is no Bombay clan and you are not going to be an assassin. You are going to college.
Jack: What do you mean – fiction?
(It’s amazing that my son can pick out a King Tiger German tank from, say, your average, everyday, kitchen-sink sort of tank. He can tell you every rank in the military and what weapons they use. But he doesn’t know what fiction is. That’s probably my bad.)
Me: I made it all up. There is no Bombay Family. And as far as I’m concerned, there won’t be one in real life.
Jack (pondering this for a moment): You mean, you write lies?
Me: No! I write fiction – stuff that isn’t true – I make things up and put them in my books.
Jack (pointing a very accusing finger at me): You’re a liar! How come you don’t get punished for that?
Me: It’s not lying. It’s imagination. And actually, I get paid to do that.
Jack: You’re right Mom. I don’t want to be an assassin. I want to be a paid liar like you.
Somehow, in a weird way, this satisfies me.