Whale Of A Time
Son, 5, is into whales. Nothing makes you prouder when they learn stuff without you, but it also makes you feel like they are not yours any more. When they are babies you long for them to grow up, when they start you hope it doesn’t happen to fast.
“Dad, whales are incredible. They eat krill and their babies are bigger than a car.”
(Me thinking: he’s growing up. There’s nothing more I can teach him.)
“Can you imagine never seeing your mother after you grow up? That’s what whales do.”
(He is learning and time will fly. Then he will fly. Every week now is a like a day - a day in which the hours are short.)
“But it’s OK, because their voices can be heard for miles and miles. About… ninety nine, a hundrety two, fourty seven and nine - that far.”
(There goes another one, probably.)
“And did you know that whales have no teeth?”
(Gotcha. Woohoo! I can still teach teach you a thing of two. How much you have to learn, my son. I swell with paternal pride and say:)
“What about sperm whales and narwhals? They have teeth.”
“Daddy,” he says in mock reprimant, “I’m talking about blue whales.”
(tick, tick, tick…)