Henry's World

Henry was staring off into space, deep in thought, while we were eating our oatmeal this morning. 

“Mommy?” he asked. “What do chameleons eat?”

“Bugs,” I said.

A moment later: “Mommy, what do frogs eat?”

“Flies,” I said.

“And bugs!”

A moment later: “What do chickens eat?”

We discussed the chickens at his great-grandparents’ house, and how they like chicken feed and scraps and watermelon rinds. He suggested we should take them a pail of watermelon.

He was quiet for a while. Then, a special grin – one eyebrow raised, mouth on the edge of a giggle. “Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“What do rubber duckies eat?”

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My boy turns 3 in just a few days. Three years! And of course it fits the old paradox: eternity and no time at all, rolled into one.

I kind of want to pause him. I’ve never really been one to say I wish my kids could stay little forever – I can’t wait to see who they’re going to be as they grow up – but I want to hang on to right-now Henry for a while.  He’s awesome.

We say sometimes that we wish we lived in Henry’s world. It’s a well-populated one. Right now, he’s obsessed with characters of all kinds: Buzz, Woody and Jessie; the Ninja Turtles, Yoda and Darth Vader;  Lilo and Stitch; Larry Boy (from Veggie Tales); the entire casts of Cars and Cars 2; The Wonder Pets; Super Why; a variety of superheroes from Spider-Man to Batman to Thor.

He has action figures for some, but mostly assigns the roles to himself and others: “You be Woody, I’ll be Buzz. Hey, Buzz!” He spends entire days correcting us with, “I’m NOT Henry, I’m Finn McMissile!” We joked that Danny might grow up thinking his name is Michelangelo, since it’s all Henry called him for a few weeks. The dog was Master Splinter.

On Thursday at preschool, his teacher reported another boy had bitten Henry during playtime, but the issue was quickly resolved. Here’s his version of the biting event (with names changed to protect the little chomper’s identity):

Henry: “Sam and I was doing tricks to each other but Sam did an awful trick to me and he bit my finger.”

Me: “Oh really? What tricks were you doing?”

Henry: “I was doing tricks with my light saber!”

Me: “And what was your light saber?”

[Henry dramatically thrusts out his finger.]

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I don’t want to lose this. Part of me knows his fantasies will become more complex, that he’ll invent characters all of his own, that he’ll start telling more stories, then writing them himself. But the other part of me knows the fantasies will end, have to end.

The other night at bedtime he asked me if he could jump into his cartoons and meet his characters. I said no, he had to pretend. He cried until I suggested he could dream about it, and then he fell asleep.

I know, too, that I won’t always get to be this much a part of his world. Worrier that I am, I project into the future way too often. I don’t plan to have surly, distant teenagers, but I know he won’t be Larry Boy forever, either. I fret about the day his world and my world stop orbiting each other so closely.

The other day on the playground, he asked some older boys if he could play under the slide with them. They said no, they were driving a submarine, and it was very hard, too hard for him. He threw his arms up and shouted, “No! My mommy will teach me how to drive a submarine!”

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I do want him to grow up. I do. I know he’ll keep surprising me. I know in a year I’ll be able to write this all over again, with a whole new world.  Eventually I’ll have to come back to these things and read them to even remember them. I expect to get all sentimental and nostalgic, like I tend to, but to feel fondly for that  present moment, too.

I watch Henry and I feel like I have a few times as a journalist, when a really great story falls into my lap. It’s thrilling and terrifying – there’s this incredible thing, entrusted to me to shape and polish. I don’t have to make it good. I just have to get it ready to go out in the world and shine on its own.

Happy birthday, little dude.

(PS - Rubber duckies eat rubber seaweed.)