The Age When Everything Is Possible

“Get ready to rumble!”

The little boy springs from the couch and lands with a thud on the living room floor.

Fortunately, his mother doesn’t see him or he could have been in real trouble.

“I am Conan the Barbarian,” the little boy says. “And you’re not.”

He pounces on my back and tries to wrestle me to the ground. I ignore him for about 45 seconds, then spin around and pin his head to the floor.

Fortunately, his mother doesn’t see this or I could have been in real trouble.

“I will crush you,” the little boy says. “I will totally destroy you.”

“Totally?”

“Totally.”

The little boy says this with his face wedged in my armpit. He is inches from defeat.

“Give up?” he asks.

I drive my chin into his rib cage. It’s a brutal move, one that tickles and hurts all at the same time.

“Mom!” he screams.

She doesn’t answer. Things don’t look too good for Conan the Barbarian.

“Mom!!!”

I let the little boy go. He rolls away and flops down next to the couch, gasping for air. We sit there for a while, winded and dizzy, like a couple of guys who just fell off their bar stools.

“Dad?” he coughs.

“What?”

“Better say your prayers,” he says.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’m Conan the Barbarian, and I’m going to tear you apart.”

And so goes another afternoon of living-room wrestling. On a rainy winter weekend, we’ll roll around on the living room carpet for hours.

Why? Because we can.

The rules are simple. First we fight. Then we fight some more. When we are too tired to go on, we stop and talk awhile.

Believe it or not, the little boy likes the talking almost as much as the fighting. It gives him a chance to prove he’s more than just a great living-room wrestler. He’s also a deep thinker.

Like most 10-year-olds, he can talk about everything and nothing, often in the same sentence. For example, over the next half-hour, he will talk at length about:

1. The color of Mars.

2. The temperature of a dog’s tongue.

3. Whether you can set off dynamite with a cell phone.

This last topic leads to the most interesting discussion. In reading the user’s guide for his mom’s new cell phone, he discovered a warning against using it in areas where blasting is being done. According to the user’s guide, the radio waves from the cell phone can interfere with the detonation.

“Isn’t that awesome?” he asks.

The very idea sends shivers of excitement up and down his spine, that just by calling his mom on the cell phone he could blow up an old building or a Vegas hotel or maybe a mountain.

I told you he was a deep thinker.

Then he drops the real bombshell.

“Dad, when I grow up,” he says, “I want to be Catholic and Jewish.”

My son doesn’t say exactly why he wants to be Catholic and Jewish. He’s not even close to being either one at this point--ethnically, spiritually or otherwise.

“You can’t be Catholic and Jewish,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because for one thing they believe very different things about Jesus, that’s why,” I say.

Poor guy. Here he is trying for a double dose of religion, and all I do is discourage him.

“You pretty much need to make a choice between one or the other,” I say.

“It’s like saying you want to play for the Bulls and the Lakers,” I say, reaching for something he might relate to. “You have to pick one or the other.”

The little boy considers this for a long time. One or the other. He knows this is an important decision.

“I’d have to say the Lakers,” he finally says. “They have Shaq.”

Fortunately his mother doesn’t hear him or he could have been in real trouble.

“I think you’re right,” I say. “Definitely the Lakers.” He glares at me.

“You know what I think?” he asks.

“What?”

“I think I’m going to destroy you,” he says.

“Totally?”

“Totally.”

He grabs my shoulder. I grab his leg.

“My name is Conan the Barbarian,” the little boys says. “Prepare to die.”