Sawyer told me what he wants to be when he grows up this morning, and it’s obvious he will make terrible decisions for himself. After he told me and we fought about whether or not he can be what he named, I wondered what I wanted to be when I was two and a half.
In fifth grade, I wanted to be President, mostly because I actually ran for class president and won, in a weird twist of events where I feel like I must have strong armed or tricked people into voting for me. Also, I spent a lot of time that year sitting in a closet writing letters to President Bush to discuss how I thought we could change the world while submitting my yearly donation of $1 to contribute to the reduction of the national debt.
In Junior High, I wanted to be an AIDs activist, and to this day, I’m still not sure what that role plays in society. I’m hardly capable of relating to or taking care of anyone with AIDs but I blame this on one of my school counselors, bringing in a bunch of hippies working in Portsmouth, do-gooders of the world. I even recall some sort of visit I made to an outpatient facility which scared the living fuck out of me. I was going to stick to not making the world a better place.
I also wanted to be a lawyer, after prosecuting the Wizard of Oz case, taking down the witch and winning, because my debating and argumentative skills are unmatched. I’ve recently picked this hobby of mine back up, offering my legal skills to a friend that got fired without cause and going Erin Brokovich on the system. I was reminded recently that very little in life energizes me a like a good fight and taking down the man when he fucking deserves it.
In high school I wanted to be a doctor but I don’t actually like blood or the thought of saving people and Grey’s Anatomy didn’t exist yet so I’m not sure where this one came from but it was short lived. I wanted to be an English teacher, mostly because I was in love with my English teacher, but I heard they make no money and I don’t like mouthy high school students.
In college, my first major was journalism because I wanted to be a sports broadcaster but then I realized I could only talk about football and I had never played and maybe I just wanted to sleep with football players, not talk about them as a profession. Then I was going to be an Arabic translator, which I’ll have you all know was before anyone was fighting terror so yay for being ahead of the game but boo for never fucking doing anything with it. Then I was going to work for the State Department, a very vague ambition. Then I lucked myself into a Senate internship and the rest is history.
Sawyer, though? He is going to save me a huge amount of money on university. That kid is adorable, athletic as fuck, funny, charming and 100% blue collar.
There is nothing that motivates that child more in life than a garbage truck, an excavator, a tool box and a vacuum. A life in sanitation is right up his alley and so I’m hoping my thoughtful Sully will find his way in something more artistic, but I pulled a rock, a cherry pit and a piece of dog food out of his mouth in the same handful the other day and so I’m guessing these kids aren’t going to make me refinance my house down the road for their education.
This morning, though, Sawyer, chatty Kathy himself, was blabbering on and announcing to the air my every move while eating jelly toast topless.
“Wanna watch Handy Manny?” I asked, knowing it would buy me 20 minutes of coffee drinking time. I couldn’t find that channel, though, but the show with the zoo animals, ZOU, popped up and Sawyer shouted, STOP STOP STOP. He was clapping like a seal. I was confused why this zoo show was causing such an excitable response.
He sighed and tilted his head to the side, thinking really hard.
“What’s wrong, Soy?” He obviously was resting up to announce something really important.
“Mommy? I want to be a Zebra when I grow up. A big one.” Then he slammed his hand on the coffee to show me how serious he was in his career choices.
“You cannot be a Zebra, Sawyer. You are a person.”
“You need to wear clothes. You need to sleep in a bed. Zebras don’t do those things.”
“Zebra.” He shouted, picked up the rabbit stuffed animal in arm’s reach, tried ripping the head off with his teeth and then threw it on the floor. He then gave me a very stern look, pointed to the rabbit on the ground and shouted one more time for good measure, fist raise high above his head,
I deserve this.