VivaCity

My son, the enigma. His all-important 3-yr-old self never ceases to amaze me. Or himself, it seems. At a festival last weekend, we saw the pony-ride-induced mini-stroke coming a mile away, and being the cruel ogres we are, forced him to ride anyways. Buck up, cowboy, life does not get any easier than being led around in a teeny circle on the back of an oversize dog. I mean really.

But then a few minutes and many tears later, he tugs our sleeves over to a huge inflated slide approximately fifteen hundred feet high and begs to go down. We hide our shock and disbelief (we’re fighting over who holds the baby; the other, by default, will have to climb up after him when the inevitable acrophobia strikes) behind encouraging smiles and a couple of “you go boy!”s and he is off. Amazingly, not only does my Boy Wonder make it to the summit, he completely bypasses the helper lady stationed at the top and hurtles down all by himself! BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! When he returns to us, all flushed cheeks and Einstein hair, he requests another turn on the slide! After we pick ourselves up off the ground, dust the baby off, and collect our thoughts, we gladly hand over another ticket.

So you think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? Animals terrify and heights excite? Oh, were that it was that simple. There seems to be no rhyme and reason to sweet Spence’s laundry list of fears. For instance, he was able to calmly feed the goats that day, wicked horned beasts with cold blips for pupils, but is absolutely unable to touch Nathaniel’s mother’s dog, paralyzed with fear. He runs shrieking from this adorable foot-tall miniature poodle like the hounds of hell were after him. My mental jukebox kicks in and plays Benny Hill music in the background. We are quite the sophisticated family, I tey-ull you whut.

Well, faithful reader, I’m off to scour Ebay for a gently used plastic bubble in which to protect my Certified Wussy Boy. Keep your fingers crossed he outgrows it by age 30 or so. I’d like grandchildren some day.