“When will she write about me?” Austin asked his grandma. “They’re famous!” he added, pointing at his cousins. Before he came to talk with me, I watched the boy following at the heels of his grandpa. “Jim has a mini-me,” I told Mary, as the menfolk walked through the farmer’s market.
Austin is a Lego builder, a movie critic, and a memorizer of dubious limericks. He didn’t shy away from this old lady asking him silly interview questions. “Tell me about yourself,” I said, and he did. At 9-years-old, he’s clearly ready for those adventures that all children must have. He needs to climb tall hills, and swim out to the floating docks on the lake; he needs to test himself just to see if he can reach the next branch on the tree, if he can swing just a little farther out over the creek on the tire swing than he’s ever done before. And he needs to be silly, to laugh when he hears a fart, to sing when a song wells up in his soul, and to dance with abandon. (That is something that the cousins can help him learn to do.)
To aid him on his way, I recommend The Dangerous Book for Boys. Stan bought a copy for my sons, and while some of the information in it still doesn’t seem important to me, the boys devoured it. What didn’t appeal to them, they skipped – so no, they still don’t know much about famous baseball players. What did apply, they relished. I hope they read the section about girls. Today I did, and was pleasantly surprised.
Duncan says that I can send his copy of TDBFB to Austin, so I will post it out tomorrow. Until then, he’ll just have to be content that, for now, he’s as famous as the girls.