Jedi is really into zombies. Movies, games, noises, role-playing. Funny zombies, gross zombies. Everything zombie. We can thank J for this wonder in parenting achievement. At least he’s not scared of them. I’ve made sure that he knows they’re not real (um, they’re not real, right?). He just thinks they’re fun. Arm-eating, feet-shuffling, skin-decaying zombies. What could be more fun!
As I was washing dishes, again as a lot of my stories seem to start, Jedi was busy pretending in the living room. He was streaming back and forth, jumping, talking to himself, his imagination running wild. When he stops in the entryway of the kitchen and announces he’s been infected.
“Oh no!”, doing my best to feign worry.
“Now it’s my job to infect everybody else.”, he informs me with a serious tone.
“Does that mean you’re going to turn me into a zombie?”, I ask as I rinse out a glass.
“Uh, no, I wouldn’t infect you. You’re just Mommy. Just Mommy washing dishes.”, he concedes. “You can be a spectator.”
How sweet is that? My darling son, the zombie, wouldn’t infect his mother. I don’t care what you say, that’s love. And if a zombie apocalypse should ever happen to arise, I’ll be sure to remind him of this. You know, as he’s gnawing off my arm.