When I Grow Up

Sep 7 2011

“Mom?  When I grow up, I do NOT want to be a doctor,” my 4-year-old, Cael, recently – and emphatically – informed me.

Son, I thought to myself, considering the fact that you scream at the sight of blood… and at the prospective sight of blood… and at the memory of blood… and the concept of blood… and the color red… I think that’s a probably a pretty good idea.

But, knowing that this is the phase of life when kids have the potential to be anything – a race car driver, a cowboy, a princess and the President of the United States – and, of course, not wanting to squash childhood dreams, I asked aloud, “Oh? Why the change of heart?”

“Well, Mom,” Cael replied.  “I’ve been finking and finking about it.  And I decided, I wuhve you very much.”

“Aw.  Thanks, Cael.  I love you very much, too.”

“Um, yeah, Mom.  I already knowed that.  So that’s why I decided.  I’m not going to be a doctor.  I’m going to open a ice cream store.”

“Owning an ice cream store sure sound like a fun job, Cael.  Soooooo….,” I asked, not quite understanding the trajectory of this conversation, “you’re going to open an ice cream store because you love me?”

Intuitive little Cael rolled his eyes, clearly comprehending my need to fill in the obvious blanks.  “Yes, Mom.  I’m going to open a ice cream store, because then I would see you.  All the time. Because you eat a wot of ice cream, Mom.  A weally, weally, weally WOT of ice cream.”

It’s good to be wuved so very much.

And, um, known.