Fighting for Joy
I walked into my 5-year-old's classroom to pick him up before the final bell rang. He ran to greet me, followed by his teacher, who looked stern.
"I thought you should know, your son has been telling the other students that you are" -- she lowered her voice to a whisper -- "a witch."
I looked at my child and spoke with anger: "You've been telling kids I'm a witch?"
A big smile spread across his face, and he giggled, unfazed. "Yeah."
"You shouldn't tell kids that!" I leaned down so we were face-to-face, and with a whisper, I said, "You wouldn't want your friends to get jealous."
I winked at my son. He nodded and winked back.
We walked out of the classroom, hand in hand, giggling. I looked back at his teacher, whose face was contorted in complete bewilderment.
My son believes I'm a witch. And I am grateful.
He developed the theory after coming home from day care a couple of years ago terrified of the nursery rhyme about Little Bunny Foo Foo. He was scared that the next time he didn't listen, a witch would turn him into a goon. To quell the nightmares, I told him that if that ever happened, I would simply turn him back. When my son asked how, I replied, "Don't you know? I have special powers."
His unflinching belief in my powers has served us well -- especially when it comes to scary times. Especially when it comes to horrors like the massacre in Las Vegas.