St. Elmo's Fire

It’s hard to keep up with my son most days. On any given day he will do an original modern dance choreography and make me laugh harder than anyone ever has—the laughter and the dance are not related, he’s quite good at free movement. Yesterday was one of these days where things just kept coming at me.

First he had to wear his Darth Vader black cape when we went to the store, only he was not Darth, he was actually Robin, of Batman and Robin. But upon arriving at the store, he thought best to be Jack Sparrow (from Pirates of the Carib), and do the Johnny Depp created, semi-gender bending Jack Sparrow walk: if you know this walk it’s like a ditty bopping drag cape swinging kind of a walk. Often imitated I bet, never duplicated, except by my son.

Then he wanted to know from me whether when one dies and goes to heaven, who decides.

“Mama, does God decide or do we decide to go God?”

“Uh, you know what I tell you about these things, nobody’s really sure but I think God does.”

“I think we do.”

“Really, why?”

“Cause we’re the ones dying, duh. But Alfonsina says God does cause sometimes we get sent to Hell instead.”

Damn you Alfonsina and everybody that answers childrens deep questions before their parents have a crack at them! Even if you are children as well: damn you. Damn you to hell.

Then he came out to watch the fourth of july tv special when Elmo came out to sing with Vanessa Williams. Then something horrible unsued. And I will now try and do a play by play.

“Come watch Elmo!”

Sees Elmo on TV being A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E, in his fourth of july outfit, on a trycicle, singing a song.

“I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT! I knew he was real. You see? I always knew it!”

“No actually he is a puppet. He can be next to real people but he is still a puppet.”

[Ok, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?! Well it’s because I forget sometimes how old my son is, what can and cannot be told. I get all caught up on how smart and deep he is sometimes—hello, he is asking about who decides death!—and am also used to answering his questions. It was like an automatic correction type thing, it wasn’t like a Santa Claus is fake type thing I was doing.]

My son rapidly goes up close to the tv, turns around and says victorious:

“Nope. See? He has no strings on him—told ya!”

And of course, because the world is a foul, foul place that eats children’s dreams, just as he says that he watches the image pull up close to Elmo, and his little under-hand wires are clear to see. And my son literally falls apart. I mean, like his pet died. He cries, violently, and runs to his room, where he sobs:

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Now I know… It’s not fair.”

So I had to go and apologize to him for telling him. And then apologize to him for Elmo’s not being real. I have never seen my son crying like that over anything at all. It was heartbreaking. And part of me almost was like "and while we’re at it, neither is Santa,", just so I would never be in this sad and depressing broken innoncence moment again-- but I didn’t. I really don’t think Santa is a convincing story anyway, or one he cares about. I mean, if Santa doesn’t exist, who cares, the gifts still come. But Elmo being real was a deep need. Elmo not being real was like the sun not shining and things not being and it really hurt from a place of loss. How the hell would I know that, not being my son and not being almost 6? I have, like any good parent who gives a damn, a profound love for Sesame Street, an almost sick adoration for Elmo himself, and a general pious religious obsession with PBS Kids and all that they do. Seeing my son cry so hard, the hardest he’s ever cried, because Elmo was not real got me thinking about the genius of Sesame Street all over. Because as adults we “get” what it is that moves kids but there is a whole other surface of meaning that we don’t get, that brilliant people who create for kids do get. And it is truly a brilliant skill that they have. I knew my son and all little kids loved Elmo, but I had no idea. [And, this also made me realize, that I don't recall a time in my life where something"of the innocent" like that was ever broken, and not cause I had a happy childhood either...]