We were lying on our stomachs face to face
playing a game of battleships.
It was America versus the Japs, he was America
and I was the Japs (as always when it came to the
Pacific campaign).
As I went to place a dud,
white peg on my attack radar board,
he asked, "How did you get those purple scars
on your arms dad, was it in a war?"
He's past seven years old now, a tricky age.
I had read in a parenting book, that at this
age with boys, honesty was always the best
road to go down. I decided to be honest.
"I did those scars myself, when I was crazy
and sad. You where very young then," I explained.
"How?" he asked.
"Well, you know that sharp sharp knife that you
aren't allowed to use unless a grown up is helping
you? Well that's how."
"Why? he asked.
"Because I was crazy and sad at the time. I cut myself
to stop being crazy and sad."
"Do all grown ups make scars, will I make scars?" he asked.
"I don't know." I replied. "Maybe other grown ups do other things
when they are crazy and sad, but I don't think you will do it."
"Did it hurt dad?" he asked.
"No, not at the time, but it did hurt later," I replied.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked.
"Yep, but in a different way than when I actually cut myself, it hurts
more inside than outside," I tried to explain.
"Can I kiss it better, like when you kiss it better when I hurt
myself playing?" he asked.
"Sure thing," I replied. "That would help."
As he leaned over the two opposing battleship boards,
he took a long good look at my fleet.
He kissed the dark red scar on my bi-cep and returned to his side
of the game.
Two moves later he sank my destroyer!
Kids are much sharper than we give them credit for...he won the game.
