The other night Antique Daddy was reading to Sean before bedtime. The book showed an illustration of a mother owl tucking a baby owl into bed for the night.
“That’s not right!” Sean said with an edge of scornful indignation.
“What?” his father asked, puzzled.
“Owls don’t go to bed at night! (insert contemptuous sigh of disgust here) “Owls are nocturnal!”
He also pointed out a door in the middle of the tree that had no steps leading up to it and a variety of other implausible details in the scene.
“That is your boy,” I later told Antique Daddy. “Always thinking critically — logical and comprehending, analyzing and questioning.”
And missing out on the silliness and the fun of the story.
Being a critical thinker will serve him well in a world that increasingly blurs the line between fact and fiction, but I not-so-secretly hope that Sean has just enough of me in him to be able to suspend reality once in a while and enjoy the sheer joy of the nonsensical and implausible too.
What a dull world this would be without owls in nightcaps or a Bofa on the sofa.