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The kids had a crossbow lesson this morning. Luckily for all concerned these were plastic crossbows with little arrows with rubber on the end, but my son could probably do some real damage with those, so I am glad they took safety seriously. The kids had to fire the arrows at a picture of a castle with an ogre (looked like a shrek to me) sleeping outside. The story was that the shrek had captured a princess and the kids had to hit targets to free her.
My son was so engaged in this that he seemed concerned that this might be real and that the sleeping ogre might wake up and that if they shot the arrows correctly the picture of a door would actually open. What an amazing place to be that you are still unsure about what is a 2 dimensional drawing and what is real. No wonder he acts like a crazy man the whole time. The world must be terrifying.
I will miss this 3 year old Ernie when he’s gone. In a year’s time he will be a very different person and this innocent little complete menace will be gone. I know I’ve talked about this a lot before, but you can’t go back and see the people that they once were, so in a sense you’re losing them. Luckily you get someone else in return, who is hopefully a bit easier to reason with and who isn’t afraid that a drawing might be reality. And in most ways that new person is better. But as much as I’ll be glad to be rid of the Ernie who thinks it’s funny to punch me in the face and who refuses to listen to any instruction making everything last half an hour longer than it needs to, I am already aching for the Ernie who displays his love and affection so readily. I hold on to him in return, but I know he will very slowly slip out of my arms and I will wish we could be back here, where we are right now.
The holiday is giving me a chance to enjoy both kids at the place they are right now, but all the admin and crowd control still gets in the way.
In “We’re All Going To Die!” I wondered what version of us we get to be in Heaven: Are we the person we were when we died? Or do we get to choose our ideal version of ourselves? And if we choose which age/person we, which version of us gets to choose what age we’re going to be? Because I don’t want the 20 year old me deciding who I am going to be. Or the 3 year old. They’d make dumb ass decisions.
I suppose you’ve got infinity days up there, so you can just scroll through each version of yourself on an endless loop/
I am not sure what my perfect age would be. I suspect that I was happiest when I was 4 and looking back I think I’ve done my best to remain at that age for most of my life. I remember adults being frustrated with me at that age, but also the stubborn belief that I was always right and wouldn’t do what I was told (and never would). Then again I’ve always been quite middle-aged too, sensible and cautious as a teenager and scared to rebel and out of shape. Maybe I have always been destined to be 4 or 54.
I watched two cricket teams battle it out to find out which was the best snack tonight. Unbelievably Pom-Bears won, but at least that issue is settled now.
