The Q-View

Dom and I  had a philosophical discussion about the inevitability of aging.

Sort of.

The dialogue was part of the-drive-to-pre-K-weekly-entertainment. This Wednesday, that included rounds of “I spy”, a discussion about the advantages of having extender arms, like Inspector Gadget, and Dom’s internal scenario-playing, fashioned around a little model diecast jet plane I gave him,

“Who are they?” Dom asked from his car seat as we sat a light in Manayunk and watched two SEPTA buses unload hyperactive, uniformed students on the corners who then raced back and forth searching for their friends.

“High school students,” I said.

“Can I go to high school?”

“When you’re older.”

“I am older.”

“Thirteen or fourteen.”

Down the road, we passed an elementary school.

“How old do you have to be to go there?” Dom asked.

“About six or seven.”

“I liked being two,” said the wizened three-and-a-half year old. “I was a toddler.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Now I’m a big boy.”

“Yes, you are. You’re very smart.”

“I know.”

When we got to daycare, Dom had a chance to “practice” some jobs he might do when he is even more distant from being a toddler.

The open area outside the various rooms was reconfigured this week. It now contained several themed play-stations. So, after we stowed Dom’s coat and washed our hands, we went to Mars.

Dom manned the NASA station. He sat in the construction paper rocket and instructed me to “launch” him from the defunct desktop serving as mission control. Then we switched roles. Dom put on a silver NASA jacket while I gingerly sat on a two-foot-high stool with my legs dangling dangerously outside the spacecraft.

I survived. It was a good launch. Dom sent me to orbit.

At other places, we rescued people with a Coast Guard helicopter, drove cars, and moved potting soil with bulldozers and dump trucks.

Which reminded me of the dirt piles and Tonka trucks of my childhood.

I liked being a kid.

Growing up is not the smartest thing we ever do.