The boys spent Monday with my parents. A good time was had by all, including the construction of a lovely gingerbread house. Big G is particularly proud of this dwelling and comments on it regularly. (He also touches it regularly, which is okay since I’m of the school of thought that gingerbread houses are for decorative purposes only. Car disagrees.)
Tonight Big G said something about a person in the house, but then made sure to point out there wasn’t actually anyone in the house.
“That’s good,” I said, “I’d hate to think there was a little man trapped in there.”
This, of course, led to a conversation with Car:
Me: “It would be awesome to build a gingerbread house with a little man inside. He’d be, like, entombed. It’d be a gingerbread tomb.”
Car: “It could be a tradition. We’d do it every year.”
Me: “I don’t know, though. It seems a little macabre.”
But still, at this point I’m finding the whole idea hilarious and pretty darn fantastic. Very Edgar Allan Poe, if you will. I’m imagining little Lego men chained down inside of gingerbread houses, possibly walled off, maybe toss in a black cat.
Yes. I have issues.
As I’m mentally headed down this road, Car says, “You know, it’d probably be more appropriate for Easter.”
This, friends, illustrates one of the key differences between Car and me. I’m thinking of Edgar Allan Poe stories featuring people entombed whilst still alive, and Car is thinking of ways to teach our kids about the resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Hey, parenting is all about balance.
No, this does not prove he learned about zombies from me. Totally different subject matter.