The T-Rex, the Dinosaur Killer and the Wardrobe

Jack was noodling around in our hall closet which houses — along with all the coats, jackets, hats and gloves 4 little boys require — a small toy box put there in hopes of keeping all eight hands occupied and away from the stove during dinner prep. As I watched, Jack stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and immediately began a series of shrieks, growls, thumps and shouts of “Help, Mom! There’s a T-Rex in here!” Thankfully, I have a few years of mothering under my belt and immediately realized the best course of action. I settled deeper into my chair and waited. Momentarily, the door was thrown open and Jack exited triumphantly, both hand raised above his head like a boxer leaving the ring.

“The world is now safe!” he intoned. “Just call me Dinosaur Killer.”

Later, he sat nearby as I shared the story with his dad over the phone.

“Yes,” I related, “He was very brave. I don’t know what we’d have done without Jack.”

Jack nudged my shoulder and whispered, “That’s Dinosaur Killer, Mom.”

“Sorry!” I whispered back. Turning to the phone once again, I reminded his dad to be sure to remember to give Dinosaur Killer a big hug and kiss once he got home.

Jack smiled proudly, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek to reward my obedience, and went on about the important business of sorting his cars and hiding his favorite toys from his little brothers.

I sat quietly a few moments longer, struggling to remember a time before Dinosaur Killers and 20 diapers a day. A faraway place where closets opened only to reveal outerwear in an orderly line and names didn’t change with your adventures. I smiled to myself, glad to be reminded that while I may lost my solitude and order, rest  and control, I’ve gained heros and dinosaurs, magic and wonder in return. A fair price, I’d say.