My Brown-Eyed Boy

“Hey mom, where’s the duct tape?” My 7-year old son would really like to know.

“I don’t think we have any right now.” I am lying. Really I’m just saying this because I’m in the middle of writing something, and I don’t want to get up and fix whatever toy whichever neighbor kid broke.

And then I see the toy my son is holding up. A rocket launcher with a torn nerf missile. It doesn’t hold pressure anymore and won’t fire due to the 3-inch hole in the side. I was supposed to fix it last weekend and I promised him I would and then I forgot and he put it away in his room.

I feel bad, so I put down my laptop and push aside the puppy who is sleeping on my legs, stretched out on the couch. He’s already found the tape, and he brings the materials to me.

“I can’t believe Johnny broke this. Two times.” He says.  “Probably when he grows up, he’s going to be a wrecker.”

“You talk like he’s a little boy or something.”

My son stares back at me with those brown eyes, like puddles of chocolate syrup.

“What I mean is, Johnny is a little boy, and little boys sometimes wreck things.”

He thinks about this for a minute. “Was I like that?”

Uh, was? I think. But then I say: “Not really. But then you’re really special.” This is probably not emotionally healthy to tell him this all the time, but I can’t resist. He grabs a  hunk of bread on his way out the door to combat. I love that kid.

No related posts.