My son’s weirdness is hardly a new topic. The Wee Man’s bizarro take on life and the universe he lives in give me more fodder for writing, discussion and therapy than just about anything else I’ve got going on.
His favorite toy these days is an elaborate bat cave my mom got him for Christmas. He fills it with super heroes, Littlest Pet Shop creatures he steals from his sister, the occasional Breyer horse and a scattering of utensils that I’ve obviously been looking for in all the wrong places. Much like I once did for love.
He frequently asks me to come play Bat Cave with him. This means I join him on the basement floor and under his careful direction, our various “players” have strange adventures.
They teach dogs how to fly. They go on hay rides. They remind The Joker that he shouldn’t rob banks. And they go out for lattes.
For real. I had to ask him to repeat that one a couple of times, because he’s still got that adorable 4-year-old lisp and slurred rs.
He didn’t specify that they go to Starbucks, which is of some comfort to me. But I’m quite puzzled over how he entered the coffee bar scene. It’s hardly a family ritual. I’ve been caffeine-free for months, but even before that, I was too cheap to pay for unhealthy and overpriced coffee drinks.
Not that it matters. There’s really not a logic train to follow on this one. It’s what I’ve come to expect and cherish about this magical little man who keeps me scratching my head, laughing my ass off and counting my blessings.