When my partner suggested that our kids could each choose a toy for our trip to the mountains, I was less than thrilled. After all, I’m not a fan of accumulating unnecessary items that ultimately take over our home—leaving me with the delightful task of cleaning up the aftermath.
While I strolled through the hiking gear section, blissfully hunting for some new outdoor apparel, I was blissfully unaware of the toy choices my partner was letting our kids make. One child picked a flashy plastic truck that zoomed around, making obnoxious noises, while another went for a dinosaur-themed truck that, to my adult eyes, felt like a bizarre twist of fate. But it was my eldest son’s choice that really left me speechless.
Standing in the sporting goods aisle, I found myself aghast. “I thought we agreed that arrows were off-limits,” I said to my partner, struggling to keep my voice steady.
“But Mom, I promised I wouldn’t shoot it at anyone!” my son, Max, protested, brandishing a foam-tipped bow and arrow like a badge of honor.
“Last time you had something like this, you almost took out your brother’s eye!” I reminded him, trying to suppress my panic.
“Sort of near the eye,” he replied, nonchalantly.
With a dramatic flair, my middle son clutched his toy truck, and the youngest stared at them both, blissfully ignorant. Meanwhile, my partner casually held up a box labeled ‘Inflatable Wild Boar.’ “He’ll shoot at this instead,” he assured me, as if that made everything okay.
“Are you serious? You’re buying our child a bow and arrow along with a—what is that, three feet long?—inflatable boar?” I exclaimed, biting my tongue to avoid using stronger language.
“He’s seven,” my partner said, as though that was the golden rule that justified everything.
Despite my apprehensions, the bow and arrows made their way to the mountains, along with Hogzilla, the inflatable boar. As soon as we arrived, they eagerly unpacked their new toys and dashed outside to set up their target practice.
Initially, only Max got to shoot the bow since he was the designated seven-year-old in this adventure. His aim was less than impressive, but that didn’t matter; he was having the time of his life, taking aim at the boar with all the seriousness of a seasoned hunter. He didn’t name it or create elaborate backstories; he simply enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
The boar was unmistakably a boar—complete with inflatable tusks and an oddly placed lump that I found rather inappropriate. If it were up to me, it would have looked a lot more like a traditional stuffed animal.
Max was in his element, fully absorbed in this solo pursuit. Gone were the days when he would interrupt my writing with books and toys; now, he was off in his own world, reading, building with Legos, or taking shots at his inflatable prey.
I always knew he was growing up, but I was still surprised by his choice of toy. I half-expected him to pick something more childish or silly, not a bow-and-arrow combo and a boar. He’s hiked up Whiteside Mountain twice, no longer needs the kid backpack, and is gearing up for his First Communion. But the boar was a clear sign that my firstborn is no longer a little kid.
He giggles, pokes the boar, and enjoys the comedic moments that come with family. I can’t deny that I miss those baby days, but I suppose I can accept this new, lively version of my son—especially when he wraps his arms around me and says, “I love you, Mom.”
Summary:
In this humorous recounting, a mother navigates the chaos of her child’s toy choices during a family trip to the mountains. Despite her initial hesitation about the practicality of a bow and arrow, she ultimately embraces her child’s growth and newfound interests, realizing that while he’s no longer a baby, he still shares affectionate moments with her.
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