At the library my 6-year-old son cleans off the shelf containing snake books.
"Eleven titles," the librarian says, as she scans the last bar code. "You must really like snakes.""Actually, I don't," the little boy replies. "That's why I wanna learn more about 'em.
I smile at his use of the word "actually." But I cringe at the thought of spending the next week and a half examining the lifestyle and eating habits of pit vipers and pythons. Last month it was dinosaurs and carnivorous bugs. Before that, amphibians. Once there was a brief interlude when we'd turned hundreds of pages filled with lovely tropical fish, and occasionally we've even checked out a collection of nursery rhymes. Generally speaking, though, my son's tastes in literature have run to creepy-crawly things.
"Wouldn't you like to take home this nice little book about unicorns?" I ask him.
"No way! Unicorns are for girls."
"What about this Smokey the Bear story?"
"Gee, Mom! You better check that one out for yourself. You're probably the only person in the whole world who still thinks Smokey's middle name is `the.'
So much sophistication for a kid just barely out of diapers! "How old are you, anyway? Six going on 16?"
"Six going on 7," he sets the record straight. "Next year I'll be in first grade."
"Thank heavens," I say as the life-size picture of an Indian cobra head rearing up on the cover of one book sends chills down my spine. "I'll bet you'll enjoy learning how to read. I'll bet you'll enjoy learning to read about snakes and crocodiles and great white sharks and things that go bump in the night all by yourself."
"Not me," he giggles. "I kinda like the way you scream."