In Defense of Boys.
It was about 94 degrees last weekend here in LA, and my son refused to take off his brown, calf-high Ugg boots. You might be curious as to why a child would want to spend an entire day with his feet encased in a pair of fuzzy, insulated sweat boxes, and rightly so. But Davis has discovered that when he dons a white tee-shirt, tan pants, a white, zip-up jacket and those brown Ugg boots, he bears, with his sandy-colored hair and light olive complexion, a striking similarity to Luke Skywalker. You try telling him that he’d be more comfortable in sandals.
As much as I enjoy the Star Wars franchise, Luke Skywalker and friends have become a bit of an issue for me over the last several months. Like most second children, Davis has been exposed to things that might not necessarily be appropriate for a child of three and a half, simply because he sometimes plays with six year-old boys who are friends of Harper’s. Whether it’s Power Rangers, Transformers, or Star Wars, Davis is on the cutting edge among the boys in his preschool class – most of whom happen to be sheltered, over-protected first children who are still on a steady diet of Blues Clues, Thomas the Tank Engine and Lightening McQueen. Here’s a conversation I’ve had at least six times in the last several weeks:
Appalled mother: So, [insert trendy name here] has been coming home talking about Darth Vader and Chewbacca and light sabers. I asked him where he learned about these things, and he said that Davis taught him.
Me (looking sheepish): I know. I’m sorry. He has a lot of older friends. But actually, he calls them Dark Vader, Twobacca and life savers. Which is kind of cute, don’t you think?
Appalled mother (glaring): No, not really.
I have reason to suspect, too, that some of these mothers have complained about Davis to the teachers, because they’ve implemented some new rules in the classroom, such as, no pretending to fight with light sabers, no pretending to be a Power Ranger, and no pretending to kill other kids with guns. But as much as I wish that Davis wasn’t so obsessed with these things at such a young age, I find myself needing to cry foul.