During a recent trip to the mountains, my partner informed our children they could each choose one toy. I was initially opposed to this idea, as I tend to resist acquiring new items that ultimately contribute to home clutter and require cleaning. However, as I strolled through the hiking gear section, selecting new pants and a shirt, I remained blissfully unaware of the toys my partner had permitted our kids to choose.
One child opted for a plastic truck that performed tricks while blasting aggressive rock music. Another picked out a truck with a dinosaur emerging from it, a choice that captivated everyone else but left me feeling like I had slipped into an alternate reality. Then came the selection made by my eldest son, Jake.
I stood in shock in the aisle of the sporting goods store, trying to figure out how to express my disapproval of my partner’s decision without revealing my frustration to the kids. “Mom said I couldn’t have arrows anymore,” Jake commented, holding a foam-tipped bow at his side.
“That’s because the last time we allowed you to have anything resembling a projectile weapon, you nearly shot your brother in the eye,” I replied.
“It wasn’t the eye,” he insisted. “It was just near his eye.”
“It left a bruise for days!” I countered.
Meanwhile, my middle child sniffled dramatically while clutching his truck, and the youngest rolled his toy into a display of baseball bats, causing a cacophony of noise.
“Well, he promised he wouldn’t shoot it at anyone,” my partner defended. “He’s going to shoot at this.” He held up a box that read “inflatable boar.”
“Oh my goodness,” I managed to say, suppressing an expletive just in time. “You’re buying our son a bow and arrow set along with a—how big is that thing? Three feet long?—inflatable boar? Just for clarity, you’ve lived in the South for far too long.”
“He’s 7,” my partner replied, as if that alone justified everything.
I realized then that certain things are beyond a mother’s control. They brought the bow and arrows along with the inflatable boar to the mountains. Upon arrival, the kids excitedly unpacked their new toys and rushed outside to shoot arrows at the boar, which I felt was merely there to provoke them.
While we were at the cabin, the children dashed outside to play. Only Jake, being 7, was allowed to use the bow, as this age seemed to be the threshold for handling such items. He aimed at the inflatable boar, though his shooting accuracy was still a work in progress. He didn’t stalk it or name it; he simply stood back and practiced his aim.
The boar was unmistakably a boar, complete with a target on its side and exaggerated inflatable tusks. There was even a rather awkward bulge, which I found unnecessary. I lean toward a more modest type of inflatable toys.
Jake thoroughly enjoyed his bow and arrows as well as the inflatable boar. His shooting sessions were serious business, and he didn’t engage in any other play with it. This was a solo venture for him, and both his father and I were not invited to join. While they would have welcomed us to play, it was clear that this was his domain.
I reminisced about the days when he would bring us books, interrupting my work by placing toys on my keyboard. Those times have passed. Now he reads independently, spends time building with Legos, and engages with TV series whose plots escape me (Nexo Knights? What is that?). He even enjoys shooting an anatomically correct inflatable boar with plastic arrows.
Of course, I recognized he was growing up, but I was still surprised by his choice of the bow-and-arrow set over a more juvenile toy. Perhaps not the rock music truck, but still something that felt more appropriate for a younger child. He has hiked up Whiteside Mountain for two consecutive years, no longer fits into a child backpack, and is preparing for his First Communion, complete with a tailored seersucker suit. Yet the boar symbolized something significant: my first child is no longer a baby.
Jake giggles at the boar, pokes it playfully, and pretends sticks are guns. He dreams of uncovering gold in the streams and finds humor in bodily functions, sharing laughter with his siblings. He even incorporates a bit of adult language into his play. Not only has he outgrown babyhood, but he has also transitioned beyond being merely a little boy. With his wild hair and increasing independence, he builds intricate Lego sets, reads voraciously, and shoots arrows at an inflatable boar from a distance.
This boar-hunting adventure, filled with laughter, is far more enjoyable than the music-blasting truck. I miss my little baby, a sentiment that is difficult to articulate. Nevertheless, I suppose I can embrace this smelly-footed, boar-hunting child, especially when he wraps his arms around me and says, “I love you, Mom.”
In conclusion, while it might seem unconventional to buy a child a bow and arrow, engaging in such imaginative play fosters independence and creativity. For more insights into parenting and self-insemination options, check out this excellent resource. And if you’re interested in home insemination kits, visit this link for more information.
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