Caped Crusader

I have recently concluded not that I should have another child, but that I should have already had another child. Paolo’s head is bursting with imagination, and he spends a good chunk of his time being someone else: a puppy, Batman, Spiderman, Sky Horse. Sky Horse is Star Wars, of course, and one of Paolo’s few mispronunciations that I’m never going to correct. (Another is upslide down.) How degenerate would I be to stop Paolo mid-lightsaber strike to teach him it’s not horse, it’s wars! You know, war? Let’s learn about war. Maybe we can squeak in a unit on genocide before naptime.

Paolo typically requires a playmate in his planet-saving endeavors, and since we neglected to spawn a follow-up kid, I’m Robin to his Batman, Chewbacca to his Yoda. If the cape fits, wear it. I was telling a friend of mine that I’d spent all of the previous evening with a pillowcase clipped around my neck and that, at this very moment, there is a pillowcase in my car because Paolo wanted to wear his cape until he got to school. She snickered and asked if I’d worn my cape to work. “No,” I answered matter-of-factly. “I took it off after breakfast.”