I used to wonder what Dr. Frankenstein
must have felt at the precise moment when he realized that not only had he
created a monster, but he’d created a monster.
I no longer have to wonder.
Last night Brady and I were cuddled in
our denim overstuffed chair, preparing for today. I’d worked late, and had
given him precise instructions by telephone earlier in the evening that if he would have his
bath taken, jammies on, and teeth brushed by the time I got home we’d be able
to play for a bit before he went to bed. To my surprise, not only had he done
everything I’d required of him, he’d also pulled one of his toy boxes out into
the living room.
The sole contents of this particular toy
box, as it so happens, are the various bodies and body parts of probably twenty
different Mr. Potato Head figures. There was Texas Rangers Potato Head. Dallas
Cowboy Potato head. Old School Mr. Potato Head. You get my point. None of the
MPH (Mr. Potato Head) figures were put together, which if you’ve ever spent any
amount of time playing with MPH (much easier, right?) in your life then you
know the limitless options that lie on the operating table before you – sort of
a kid-friendly version of Frankenstein’s Monster in which you can hide random,
leftover body parts in its hiney.
Before we could get down to the business
of creation, though, Brady and I had an important matter to handle first.
I submit to you the following document,
an account of the conversation that transpired between father and son, co-creator
and createe.
Fade In:
INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
BRADY (5) dressed in blue flannel
button-up pajamas littered with snowmen and hair still wet cuddles with BRAD
(37) in an oversized denim chair that’s seen better days, and in those days,
lots of moments like this one. They are father and son.
BRAD
We’ll play Mr.
Potato Head in a second, but
first… isn’t there
something you want to ask me?
BRADY
No.
BRAD
I
think there is.
BRADY
(giggling)
Not
really.
BRAD
Okay,
if you say so. I’ll give you one more chance,
then
I won’t ask you again.
BRADY
Do
we want to watch Survivor while we
cuddle?
BRAD
That’s
not it.
BRADY
Do
we want to eat Oreos while we cuddle?
BRAD
Not
it either.
Brady laughs. Not a silly, fake laugh,
but one that suggests he’s only just begun with the witty banter and thinks he’s
the funniest guy around.
BRADY
Doooooo
you wanna play Hot Wheels?
BRAD
Nope.
BRADY
You
wanna give me five dollars?
BRAD
Nuh
uh.
BRADY
Twenty
dollars?
Brad gives him a look. A get serious
look.
BRADY
(con’td)
A
hundred dollars? Wait. A million dollars?
Yep, funniest guy around.
BRAD
Fine.
If it’s not important to you, it’s not important to me.
BRADY
Okay,
okay.
Brad slinks deeper into the chair. A
moral victory.
BRADY
(cont’d)
Daddy?
BRAD
Yes,
Brady?
BRADY
Can
I turn one hundred tomorrow?
Pandemonium ensues. A one kid laugh
track.
BRAD
You
know what? If that’s what you really want, then yes.
Yes
you can. By all means, turn one hundred tomorrow. Be
old.
Lose your hair. Lose your hearing. Lose your mind. Have
fun
pooping your pants again.
This grosses Brady out.
BRADY
Really?
BRAD
Yep.
Old people do that. They can’t always control when and
where they
have to use the restroom.
BRADY
So
they poop their pants?
BRAD
Why
don’t you wait until tomorrow when you wake up and
you’re
a hundred. If you’ve pooped your pants you’ll know I
wasn’t
lying.
Brady’s scrunches his nose. One hundred
doesn’t sound fun.
BRADY
Daddy,
can I please turn one tomorrow?
Seriously?
BRAD
Sure,
but you’ll still be pooping your pants, and
you
won’t know how to work the PlayStation anymore.
Brady gives it some more thought before
locking eyes with Brad. It’s a war of wills, a Wild West showdown of sorts
where new is trying to push out old. Old isn’t budging.
BRAD
(cont’d)
We
don’t have to do this. We can all wake up tomorrow
and
everything can still be the same if you want it to.
Brad makes a move to get up, catching Brady
off guard. Brady stiffens, sensing the moment that could change his life
forever is about to evaporate.
He grabs Brad’s face, cupping his father’s
man-sized cheeks in his tiny hands.
BRADY
Daddy…can
I please turn six tomorrow?
Brad thinks about it. No more fun and
games.
BRAD
Will
you still love me as much as you did when you
were
five?
BRADY
More.
BRAD
Oh
yeah?
BRADY
Yep.
I’ll be six, so I’ll be bigger. I’ll have more
room
in my body to love you.
Brad hugs Brady. This is the moment we’ve
been waiting for. Old doesn’t have to give way to new – there’s room for them
both.
FADE OUT.
THE END
Sentiment aside, that little turd played
me the entire time. Brady knew, that with every turn in our conversation, he
was baiting me. He understood that tradition has him ask me on the eve of his
birthday for permission to turn the next age. It sounds weird, I know, but it’s
all I have. The younger version of Brady eagerly complied. This new Brady 2.0,
however, I wasn’t prepared for. It’s like he’s the Bionic Man of kindergarteners.
Sure, last night everything turned out okay. But what happens when the day
comes and it doesn’t? What happens when he says something so witty that even I
don’t have a comeback for it? Daniel LaRusso was never better than Mr. Miyagi.
Luke Skywalker didn’t best Yoda. Rocky never took a swing at Mickey.
And now, even as I write this, something
Traci said to me reverberates through my mind. “What do you expect? You created him.”
