Choices

I found myself on a very long walk with The Boy last night. Trust me, it wasn’t so much the distance that made the walk very long, as it was only about a three-mile jaunt; it was The Boy and his incessant chatter about choices. Here is an excerpt from our conversation:

Mama, what if you had to choose between being dripped on by a hot glue gun, or running through 69 feet of fire?

The hot glue gun.

What if it was a whole bucket of hot glue?

Still choosing the hot glue.

What if you ran really fast and you weren’t wearing flammable pants?

Where can I get those pants?

What if you had to poop outside and you had to pick between wiping your butt with a fuzzy leaf that made you itch or a thorny leaf. What would you choose?

Am I out of toilet paper? Why am I making this choice?

You’re outside and you have to go right now.

I’d probably scoot along on the grass because I’m not using either of those leaves.

You have to choose one.

Am I still wearing those magic pants that are not flammable? ‘Cause if they’re like astronaut pants, this question might not matter.

You have to use a leaf.

I’ll just hold it until we get home.

You can’t - you have to choose.

What would you pick?

I would pick the thorny leaf because I really don’t like having an itchy butt.

And there we have it, son. No one does.