Put it on the list

For the last several weeks, the count down has been on for Brisco. He’s putting actual X’s on the calendar, and in 14 days (and counting) it will finally be his birthday. He thinks about it at least once a day, and then goes directly to his OG&E keep-our-country-clean-calendar and puts a mark on the current square, bringing him one day closer to the date of his birth. The boy is pumped.

He’s not near as pumped about marking his calendar, though, as he is about making his list. His birthday list. Apparently he decided that if a child is supposed to make a Christmas list, why not one for his birthday as well? And so, he has been busy creating one spectacular wish list for a soon to be five year old boy.

He started off slowly, seeming to put some thought into each and every item. Usually, his ideas would come after seeing one of the zillion commercials marketed directly to his precise demographic, prompting him to come running to me wherever I might be.

“Mom! This is what I want! A Play Dough ice cream thingy!”
And with my hands in a bowl of raw meat I’d reply, “Ok. I got it. Play Dough. Ice Cream. Wait. You do know that it isn’t edible, right?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you can’t eat it.”
“Oh. Yeah, I know. Can you just put it on a list?”

And so it began. First the Play Dough. Then the Grave Digger Monster Jam Flip and Crash unit. Then the Hot Wheels speed racer ramp. Simple items most any little boy would be happy about receiving; definitely five year old boy stuff.

But soon after, he started coming up with items that seemed a little less age appropriate. And at random times. After a week long tribute to the Rocky series on AMC a few weeks back, he decided he needed a pair of “punching gloves”. Understandable, I suppose after being all energized by the impetus and perseverance of ole Sly Stallone. “Eye of the Tiger” and all that.

Then last week, he informed me he wanted a golf cart. This from a child who has never set foot on a golf course. OK, maybe once or twice. After I questioned him to make sure he knew what he was asking for, he said, “Of course I know! Or I’d take one of those little gators or go carts that kids can drive. Put it on my list, Mom, OK?” OK, Brisco. Sure thing.

A couple days later, things just started getting weird. He barged into the bathroom while I was in the shower to tell me he wanted a pogo stick for his birthday. “Did you hear me, Mom? A POGO STICK! PUT IT ON THE LIST!” A pogo stick. You got it.

The kicker came at lunch on Friday. He’d had a light bulb moment, that I could see as clearly as the melted American cheese smeared across his left cheek. “A museum, Mom! That’s what I want for my birthday! We can put it right over there!” he said pointing out the back window.

I explained that purchasing a museum might be a little harder than simply putting it on a list or checking the “for sales” on eBay, and by the time he’d finished his last pretzel, we’d negotiated a possible visit to the museum over moving a real one into the back yard.

Even random board games he’s seen on TV have made him mad with birthday greed. “I want Sorry Sliders, Mom!” he demanded. “Put it on the list!”

It wasn’t until Saturday afternoon, after a few hours of fishing (or so it was called) that I finally had to set the boy straight. As we left the lakeside, we passed a little kid on a moped, and Brisco jumped half out of his seat and said, “I want a dirt bike for my birthday!” Well, I certainly didn’t feel the need to respond to that kind of request, but Dad, sitting behind the wheel said casually, “OK.”

Wow. That was easy. So he tried again. “I want a little four-liter (i.e. wheeler) for my birthday.” Again, Dad’s reply? “OK.”
Third time’s a charm with this kid, so he pushed further. “I want a dirt bike, a little four-liter, and a big four-liter!” And Dad said…“OK.”

Brisco looked over at me, eyes spinning with anticipation and I could tell that for a split second, he actually believed it might happen. “Mom! Can I really?”
And without an ounce of fear or worry over crushing his birthday dreams, I said, “No way. Not a chance. Not gonna happen.”

He looked at me, dismayed for a moment, but then seemed to realize that maybe asking for motorized recreational vehicles at five is a bit too much. He gave me his best, Brisco grin and a little “Hmm,” to which I replied, “Sorry, Bub. But hey, we can still put it on the list.”

And that’s All in a day’s work!