A pint-sized dictator lives with me
“IF WE KEEP HAVING THIS CONVERSATION, WE’LL BE LATE!”
I look around, perplexed. Who said that? The only people in the front hall are me and my 5-year-old son, Sam.
And 5-year-olds don’t talk like that, right? “LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!” the voice insists, and I look down to see — yikes — it’s him, staring at me with a vaguely impatient expression.
Is it his new glasses, which give him a certain owlish Bill Gates imperviousness?
Is it the fact he’s the youngest of four kids and, as such, has a moral obligation to raise hell?
I don’t know, but it’s surreal to hear someone the size of an oversized turkey leg channelling the personality of a crusty 1950s newspaper editor. “WATCH AND LEARN!” he commands, trying to open the front door with his mitts on.
As he grapples unsuccessfully with the handle — here, can I give you a hand? — it strikes me that there’s something oddly familiar about his smouldering indignation and desire to be king of his own domain.
My brother Trevor, for one, would barricade himself in his bedroom on a weekly basis during high school to ponder existential novels about Kafkaesque cockroaches and the Doors song “The End.”
“Get to school!” my beleaguered mother would shout as he blasted his stereo louder.
This cagey frontier spirit emerged again in my nephew Benjamin, a loquacious self-starter who, in his formative years, would gleefully run amok on our annual birthday outings until I managed to wrestle him back in the car.
There’s something oddly familiar about his smouldering indignation
While the name escapes me, I recall another family member strutting about with the same cagey intransigence I see so clearly in Sam, some opportunistic troublemaker who bristled against authority and insisted on doing things his own way.
“Yeah,” notes my wife politely. “You.”
“Me?” I recoil in shock. “Don’t be silly. I love taking direction.”
“Oh, sure,” says Alicia, nodding in mock agreement. “You avert eye contact, mumble sarcastically and skulk around like a James Bond supervillain.”
The point is, the DNA loop has repeated.
And instead of the meek, compliant kindergartner I was emotionally prepared for, I’ve got Eddie Haskell: barking orders, dispensing phoney compliments, offering nuggets of worldly wisdom while I unstick the zipper on his pants.
“I have something to tell you,” he announced as I prepared to dump a paper bag in the trash. “If you put that in there, we’ll lose trees. REMEMBER THAT! We don’t want trees cut down, because TREES MAKE OUR AIR!”
“Sorry, sir,” I mumble, catching myself when I remember he’s only 5.
Good grief. He’s not like this with his mother.
“Yesterday, he told me, ‘Mommy, I can’t hold it in anymore, I have to tell you — you’re the prettiest person in the world!’ ” notes Alicia with amusement. “He didn’t want me to tell you. He thought your feelings would be hurt.”
I guess I should be flattered he was concerned, though I can’t escape the feeling that, on some level, I’m being had.
Take his fifth birthday party, where he greeted guests with gentlemanly hugs, courtly bows and discreet pecks on the cheek while I gazed, slackjawed, from the sidelines.
“It seems like just yesterday he was beating his tiny fists against my skull when I informed him it was bedtime,” I marvelled to Alicia. “Oh wait. It was yesterday . . . (deflated sigh) . . . still, I’m proud.”
From the kitchen, Sam sees me talking and motions wildly with his arms. “WHERE’S MY BEEF?” he shouts, gritting his teeth with rage. “I WANT MY BEEF ON MY BIRTHDAY, HANUKKAH, CHRISTMAS AND RAMADAN!”
I consider pointing out that Ramadan involves 30 days of fasting, that he’s not Muslim and that he doesn’t even like beef, but think better of it and trudge dutifully off to the grocery store. Joel Rubinoff writes for the Waterloo Region Record. Email him at jrubinoff@therecord.com