The Age of Dinosaurs
James Scruton
There are, of course, theories
about the wide-eyed, drop-jawed
fascination children have for them,
about how, before he’s learned
his own phone number or address,
a five-year-old can carry
like a few small stones
the Latin tonnage of those names,
the prefixes and preferences
for leaf or meat.
My son recites the syllables
I stumble over now,
sets up figures as I did
years ago in his prehistory.
Here is the green ski slope
of a brontosaur’s back,
there a triceratops in full
gladiator gear. From the arm
of a chair a pterodactyl
surveys the dark primeval carpet.
Each has disappeared from time
to time, excavated finally
from beneath a cabinet
or the sofa cushions, only
to be buried again among its kind
in the deep toy chest,
the closed lid snug as earth.
The next time they’re brought out
to roam the living room
another bone’s been found
somewhere, a tooth or fragment
of an eggshell dusted off,
brushing away some long-held notion
about their life-span
or intelligence, warm blood
or cold. On the floor
they face off as if debating
the latest find, what part
of which one of them
has been discovered this time.
Or else they stand abreast
in one long row, side
by scaly side, waiting to fall
like dominoes, my son’s
tossed tennis ball a neon yellow
asteroid, his shadow a dark cloud
when he stands, his fervor for them
cooling so slowly he can’t feel it—
the speed of glaciers, maybe,
how one age slides into the next.
Ian likes to hit me. Anger, frustration, love, play, Tuesday. He balls his fists, gets a running start, and aims for where my eyes aren’t looking. I’m thankful and honored that I’m the only person he feels comfortable using as a punching bag, but a change would be nice.
Yesterday he hit me while we were playing in the pool. It was an accident, but tell that to my bruise.
‘Okay, Ian. New rule.’ Because what a four-year-old wants is more rules. ‘From now on, each time you hit me, you also have to give me a hug.’ He gave me a hug and swam bounced away.
A half-hour later we were at our door; I was fumbling with the keys. With no warning, Ian punched my thigh and wrapped my legs in a fierce bear-hug.
‘Just to clarify, you can give me a hug without hitting me, too.’
We visited my mother last weekend. Ian slept in my past bed and room, the walls still painted in depressing shades of black and gray. I was a melancholy young man.
My bedroom also now has my mother’s computer, and a television with satellite. We can’t even receive PBS at our house, so cable is a treat for vacations and hotel rooms, and YaYa’s house. On Saturday night, I let Ian watch a bit of Cartoon Network before going to sleep. I found the channel, set the television timer for fifteen minutes, and went downstairs.
Fifteen minutes later we heard the rapid thumping of feet above our heads, and assumed Ian had to use the bathroom, or wanted a drink of water.
I made my way to bed at ten o’clock, nearly two hours later. As I turned toward the bathroom I realized I was hearing high-pitched voices and tinny music. There was a harsh light flickering from under Ian’s door.
I turned the doorknob, and found Ian sprawled across the bed, one arm dangling over the side and his face pressed against the mattress. The light of the television threw shadows from the footboard across the wall.
Ian bolted upright, his mouth slack and pupils dilated to silver dollars. He tried to blink, a Tin Man asking for oil. Parenting is a game of stifled laughter.
‘Ian?’ Blink. ‘Did you turn on the TV?’ Bl…ink. ‘Yes?’ Nod. ‘It’s really time for bed, kiddo.’
‘Okay.’ He crashed to the mattress, and was out before the TV.
