When my partner suggested that our children could each choose one toy for our mountain getaway, I hesitated. My natural instinct is to avoid any additional clutter in our home, as it often leads to more cleaning for me. However, while I roamed the aisles of hiking gear, blissfully selecting new apparel, I was blissfully unaware of the toys my partner had allowed the kids to pick out. One child chose a noisy plastic truck that performed stunts and blared heavy metal music, while another picked a truck featuring a dinosaur, much to the delight of everyone but me. And then there was the selection made by my eldest son.
I found myself frozen in disbelief in the middle of the store’s sports section. I was struggling to figure out how to confront my partner without the kids catching on.
“I thought we agreed that I wouldn’t let you have arrows anymore,” my son Tyler said, cradling a foam-tipped bow at his side.
“That’s because the last time we got you a projectile weapon, you accidentally shot your brother in the eye,” I replied.
“It wasn’t the eye,” my 7-year-old protested. “It was just near it.”
“It left a bruise for days,” I countered.
Meanwhile, my middle son was sobbing dramatically, clutching his dinosaur truck, and the baby was oblivious, rolling his own truck against a display of baseball bats.
“Well, he promised he wouldn’t aim it at anyone,” my partner defended. “He’s going to shoot at this.” He held up a box labeled “inflatable wild boar.”
“Oh my goodness,” I stammered. “You’re buying our son a bow and arrow set along with a—how large is that thing? Three feet long?—inflatable boar? Just to clarify, you’ve spent too much time in the South.”
“He’s 7,” my partner replied as if that was a sufficient justification.
And so, we discovered that there are certain battles a mother simply cannot fight. They brought the bow and arrows to the mountains, alongside the inflatable boar. The first thing they did was unpack everything and dash outside to shoot arrows at the boar, which I sensed was just to provoke it.
While at the cabin, the kids were always eager to play outside. Only Tyler was allowed to use the bow and arrow, as he was deemed old enough for such responsibilities. He aimed for any part of the boar he could hit; his aim was not quite accurate yet, but that didn’t deter his enthusiasm. He didn’t sneak up on it or give it a name; he simply stood back and enjoyed his target practice.
The inflatable boar was unmistakably a boar. Along with its target side, it featured exaggerated inflatable tusks and a prominent lump where only male pigs have a lump. It felt unnecessarily crude to me, as I was more aligned with the Barbie-doll aesthetic.
Tyler adored both his bow and arrows and the inflatable boar. His approach to shooting was serious; no one attempted to ride it or use sticks to hit it. Neither my partner nor I participated. Sure, if we had asked, he would have let us join, but he was content in his own world. This boar, with its exaggerated anatomy, and his bow were solely his, a solitary pursuit.
I recalled the days when he would bombard us with books or interrupt my writing by thrusting toys onto my keyboard. Those times had passed. Now, he read on his own, spent hours building with Legos, and watched shows I struggled to understand (Nexo Knights, seriously?). He was busy shooting an inflatable boar with his bow from a distance.
It was clear to me that he was growing up. I expected him to choose the flashy truck, not the bow and arrow set with an inflatable boar. He may have climbed Whiteside Mountain two years running, no longer needing the kid backpack, and he was preparing for his First Communion in a tailored seersucker suit. But the boar reminded me that my firstborn was no longer a little child.
He giggled as he poked the boar in its absurd anatomy, shot arrows, and pretended sticks were guns. He talked about finding treasure in streams, laughed at his brother’s antics, and even threw in a few choice words while singing his favorite songs. He was no longer a toddler, and he had transitioned past being just a little boy. His hair was wild, he was engrossed in Lego sets, and he was far too busy for the simplistic joys of early childhood.
As amusing as this boar hunting and the accompanying giggles were, I preferred it over the noisy truck. I missed my baby in ways that were hard to articulate, but I guess I could make room for this smelly-footed, boar-hunting boy in my life, especially when he wraps his arms around me and says, “I love you, Mom.”
This article was originally published on May 6, 2017.
Additional Resources
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Summary
The journey of parenting is filled with unexpected moments, like when a child chooses a bow and arrow over more conventional toys. This article reflects on a mother’s realization of her son’s growth and independence, as well as the bittersweet feelings that accompany watching them evolve from childhood into a new phase of life.