Last Saturday, our youngest had a birthday party, so my husband left early with her and worked in his classroom. Our oldest was working. That left me alone with the boy. All I could think was, “Oh no. Oh-no-oh-no, oh no!” Lately, he’s been treating me like I’m sub-human, a giant wart on the foot of his life, or--as his favorite Ninja Turtle would say, “On the B-Team.” He’s not only sassy, he is demanding and belligerent to me. What were we going to do together all day? Especially since I knew I was going to feel sick.
Basketball, I thought. First, we watched some of the UNC-Gonzaga championship game. Ben impressed the pants off of me with his knowledge of the players (both “our team,” UNC, and theirs), as well as the coaches. I have no idea how many times he’s already seen this game, but he enthusiastically watched the first half--cheering, pointing out excellent plays, and making jokes like, “Hey, there, CorduROY!” (To the UNC coach, Roy Williams.) At the half, we went upstairs where I fell asleep on the sofa and Ben reenacted the first half of the game, a one-man show up and down the hallway.
After we finished the second half, well, what could we do but have ice cream for dinner? We swung together on the bench swing for a while, admiring the new layout of the place’s patio, then decided to go to the public beach, where we could sit in the car, look at the lake, and talk.
“Mom, what was your favorite vacation?”
“Hands down, taking you to Disney. Do you remember that trip, Bud?” I was pleased to hear he remembered a lot about seeing all the characters. He talked about Woody pointing to his Buzz Lightyear shirt and then to Buzz, and Ben felt like maybe he was going to pee his pants. I asked him what he remembered about the Playhouse Disney show, and he remembered some of the songs, and that the usherette behind us really liked us (specifically Ben, because he was hilarious to watch).
“Do you remember about Goofy?” I asked. He didn’t. So I told him that, during the show, he (Ben) stood up and yelled, “Goof! Goof, it’s me, Ben! Goof! Come here, I gotta tell ya something!”
Ben thought that was great. “Oh, just wait,” I said. “It gets better.” I reminded Ben about telling him that Goofy was working, and he couldn’t come over just then. He had a show to do, and we couldn’t interrupt. But, we’d find him later, and he’d be able to talk to Goofy personally. “So the next day,” I told Ben, “we saw Goofy at a different park, and you zoomed over to the line to see him. You bounced back and forth, impatient. When we were finally at the front of the line, you ran up to Goofy and screamed, ‘Goof! It’s me, Ben! I gotta tell ya somethin’!’ Goofy leaned over and lifted his ear. You whispered something and then smiled at me triumphantly. Next we got your picture taken and an autograph, and that seemed to satisfy you.”
“So what’d I say?” Ben asked, his face lit up with the memory of being that three-year-old surrounded by the magic of his friends in REAL LIFE.
“I have no idea.” I said. “You wouldn’t tell me. When I asked, you said, ‘Mom! It’s between me and Goof!’ And of course, Goofy was sworn to secrecy!”
We laughed and laughed and hugged and relived the moment as the sun sparkled on the lake. Too soon, Eric texted that he was home, and we buckled our seat belts to return to regular life. As I was driving home, Ben said, “Hey, Mom, we should do this more often.”
Yes, son, we should.
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