DADWAGON

So the teachers at J.P.’s preschool told my ex that one of the youngsters in his class was “acting out” yesterday and that he gouged J.P.’s face with a toy, drawing blood. Wisely, I suppose, the teachers declined to share the name of the boy who did this, but since J.P. immediately told me (Forest), I was able to begin drafting my plans for his annihilation. Poor Forest (Gump?). Your days are numbered.

Later that night, as J.P. and I were at home designing elaborate train wrecks with J.P.’s Thomas set on the living room floor, J.P. matter-of-factly announced that he was “afraid of the broken whistle.”

Did young Forest strike J.P. with a broken whistle? I tend to doubt it, but you never know. More likely, however, this was one of these odd phrases J.P. just tosses out there every once in a while. A few months ago it was “the robot in my closet crushed my hand.” This was followed by “I’m sick. I have a cough.” (accompanied by demonic laughing—well, not really.)

Part of me wonders if these are an expression of sublimated fear, or Jungian outbursts of his still-developing psyche, or even some subtle acting-out of his disturbance at my divorce. Or he just be he’s afraid of whistles and robots.

You tell me.