The Man Cub

He is eight, and he is my grandson.

He texted me this past Saturday afternoon (after already texting me twice early in the morning, while I was still sleeping, and then leaving me two voicemails thereafter.) "Why aren't you calling?" he asks.

This has become routine on Saturday mornings: He is an earlier riser than I - at least on weekends... I sleep in but he is ready to talk and is up for adventure.

The man cub is not an obsessed stalker, not a jealous husband.... no, not either of those. He is eight, and he is my grandson.

And he is absolutely my favorite kid in the universe. Without him, my life would be lacking half of its comic relief and my heart would top off at half full.

For this text, which two days later is still making me laugh, was brief and perfectly spelled, all written in caps:

I'M A WORM FARMER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He peppered the text with an uncounted, yet substantial, number of exclamation points. So unexpected, it came out of the wild blue yonder, without any prior talk from him of fashioning a worm bin or of wanting to farm squirmy wormy things...

He is a boy child, and wondrously, magnetically attracted to soldiers and battles and Legos and adventure books. But he has never spoken of this subject before.

And, as the story ends, there is no worm farm, no worm composting, just a cup of worms from the bait section of the local market, gently placed onto the family compost heap with the hopes that they will bury into and turn and aerate that decaying pile....

It was, simply, pure and unadulterated silliness from my favorite man cub, in a land where the wild things are...


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