Sure, I try to relate. I'm always up for a game of "let's beat the crap out of each other and make the loser smell my armpit." Since he was 4, I have kept a steady supply of jars to store bugs in, even going so far as to scout for them at garage sales. I did an impressive job acting delighted when he taught himself how to catch yellow jackets IN HIS BARE HANDS. I told him I was proud of him when he later presented me with a jar containing 37 live yellow jackets. (I did put my foot down on keeping them in the house. And I'll just let you imagine the sound and fury of 37 yellow jackets trapped in a water bottle.)
So the other weekend, he went to stay at his buddy Evan's house. Evan's family lives on 26 acres in the woods in a very rural part of Ohio. When he goes, I have to pack waders, binoculars,flashlights, a full face mask in case of air soft wars, and his many knives. As soon as my city boy hits the woods, he turns into Les Stroud. Evan's mom makes them check in occasionally, but they pretty much refuse to come indoors. Henry and Evan once spent 3 solid weekends wading silently in a stagnant, goo-crusted pond, trying to catch an ancient snapping turtle the size of a suitcase. They did finally catch it and brought it home to Evan's mom in a wagon. No fingers were lost. Evan's mother, thoughtfully, sent his clothes back home with him in 5 gallon zip lock bags. The stench was unreal.
This past weekend, he casually mentioned that he and Evan were going to "kill that beaver." Horrified, I said,
"No, you are not killing a beaver."
(Insert mental image of my son and his best friend streaked in mud and gore as they kill, skin and eat a harmless, cute little beaver in the moonlight, Rambo-style.)
"Mom, come on. The beaver's making a mess of the woods. Evan's dad said we could kill it if we find it. "
"I forbid you to hunt or kill a beaver, so help me God, young man!" (That was when I realized that I am on a long strange journey with the boy child.)
So when he got home Sunday night and said, "Mom! Look what we found in the woods!," I figured it was a tail. Or a head. He once handed me a baggie full of bee heads. That's a hard gift to accept gracefully. Moving on.
He said, "We found some shell casings in the woods!!"
"Oh my God!!! Where the hell were you?"
" In the woods."
"No, Henry, like where?! Were you still on their property? Did you wander onto a shooting range? Where, exactly, the hell were you?"
He replied, "I don't know. We were near these trees. This is my half. Evan and I split them evenly. You know, so it's fair."
I don't know what scares me more: the fact that he found this many (x 2) shell casings in the woods or the fact that they weren't actually in a pile. He told me they were scattered over a fairly large area and they decided to pick them all up and keep them. It took hours. Digging in the mud and snow. Bizarre.
So now it's my job to clean the muddy casings because he "wants them in a bowl on his nightstand for decoration." Very classy. They will go well with the dead tarantula and the moldy praying mantis. Oh, and the dead shark. I have rinsed them off three times already and every time, a new generation of spiders and ants emerge. So I finally gave up and put them in a bucket on the front porch till spring. Which has had an interesting effect on the mailman.
