GOD BLESS LITTLE BOYS

If I could have hand-selected a child out of the dozens lining those nursery walls, I'm sure I would have overlooked the chubby cherub with the slightly Cro-Magnon aura that was my very own son. Eventually that ancient ugliness would fade away and leave the round head and perfect complexion of a Gerber baby. Aside from the swirl of hair shaped like a McDonald's ice cream cone atop his head, my son was as perfect a child as I'd ever seen . . . until he grew up.

Only a mother can know the perpetual heart attack that is having an imaginative little boy - the paradox of joy at being blessed with such a unique child and the subsequent embarrassment of having to claim him when he behaves in much less stellar ways.

In the 30 seconds during which my back is turned, he can scurry up a chest of drawers and launch himself to the carpet all the while clutching a toy Batman grappling hook while his substitute cape (Spiderman blankie) flaps in the wind behind him. While I'm preoccupied driving, he will entertain himself by removing his sneakers and socks and putting the armrests from his booster seat on his feet. If he isn't preoccupied with that, he'll throw out dramatic comments to me such as "Hurry up, I'm dying. There's no more food left in my stomach."

Nothing beats having to sit through a parent/teacher conference in which the teacher infers that your son might have Asperger's syndrome, a high-functioning autism. I've since established that my son is just weird, no Asperger's syndrome involved. When asked by his teacher what he needed to work on during the school year, he responded "my spaceship". When I asked him why he'd pushed a little girl in line at school, he replied "She's weird." When I tell him what a big boy he is, he'll quip "I'm not a big boy! I'm a little hobbit." And he likes to wear "We are #1" foam fingers on his feet during our evening walks.

Conversations with him are just as interesting. I am fascinated by the way his mind works.

Him: Mom, I want to be a soldier when I grow up.
Me: Um, okay.
Him: Can I be a soldier when I grow up?
Me: You can be whatever you want.
Him: Do soldiers die?
Me: Sometimes.
Him: The bad guys kill them?
Me: If they're in a war, they might get shot and die.
Him: Never mind. I don't want to be a soldier.

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Him: Do you have to get married when you grow up?
Sis: No, you don't have to.

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