Oh, Owen. He’s such a little puddin’ pop. I just love that kid.
A few years back, I was sitting a minute in his room before bed.
Side note: Sitting a minute (or “sitaminute” – it’s now its own verb. Or noun? I don't know. We played MadLibs recently and I am freshly aware of how bad I am at identifying parts of the English language) is an institution in our house.
Lilly regularly asks me to “Sitaminute for five hours.”
I’m not sure sitaminute means what she thinks it means.
Anyhow, I was sitaminuting with Owen one night a few years ago and he said, “Mom, I just want you to know that when I turn four, I won’t be here anymore. I won’t wake up again.”
And I was like, “Um. Don’t say shit like that. Stop being creepy.”
I actually don’t remember what I really said to him, but I do remember being kind of a little worried for, like, the entire year he was four. Just in case. Because I've read that book. It doesn't end well for the kid.
But, here he is, all five years old and shit, and not only is he still hanging around, he wakes up on a daily basis.
I’m not surprised. If Owen did, in fact, get a message from the spirit world, or some kind of vision into the future, it was probably something like, “you will get a new bed and get a full night’s sleep,” or, “you will die when you are 104,” or “You will eat a doughnut,” and he just misunderstood.
He’s a real sweet kid, but he’s quite often wrong about stuff.
He does this thing where Sam will say something ridiculous. Like, RIDICULOUS, and, in response, Owen will say, dead serious, with a clear voice and unwavering gaze, “Dat is true.”
And then I have to decide whether to take the time to correct him (“That is not true. That is a bruise, not a chicken pox. You do not have chicken pox, and even if you did, you did not get them eating chicken.”) or let it go and risk having him grow up, firm and steady in his belief that he had Chicken Pox when he was five.
Last night, he said he was having a hard time sleeping because he was worried about going to jail, or getting captured, or getting kidnapped. I wanted to tell him there is no such thing, but I couldn't. So I said that he just needs to stay close to mom and dad, and we will protect him, but if anybody ever DOES try to take him he needed to just go bananas.
“Like, I should tewl you?”
“Well, no, because if you could just tell me, you probably wouldn't be being kidnapped. So, no, you’ve gotta scream really loud and flail around and drop to the ground or run or something.”
As if Owen could go faster than a dignified trot.
He looks at me, all dubious, “I don’t know how to do dat.”
“Well, how about you just stick close and don’t talk to strangers?”
But he got me thinking about kidnappers, and then I couldn't sleep anymore, either.