Sons are aliens

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Added: Sat. Mar 07, 2009 9:40am
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When my 2 eldest sons were children, they loved to play 'oorlogje', oorlog meaning war, the -je  used to soften the meaning of the word. Of course I had to think about accepting that, but as they were not aggressive by nature, I let them have their weird sort of fun.

There was no stopping them anyway, as a container full of little soldier figures washed ashore on the island one day, and even the most pacifist household was swarmed with blue, grey and green little figures, that would populate the floors and tables in every home, with stupid enthousiastic dogs running through it sweeping everything over of course. Cats would step over the toy soldiers with enormous disrespect in their eyes, but the dogs ruined many games.

There were Russian soldiers, German, American, French and some others. They came with flags, little green tanks and even plastic trees, tents and such to make it more realistic.

One day my eldest alien, who was about seven then, was playing with his friend, I could hear them  go : "Bang! Wham! Pfiu!" like always, but then: "Torpedo!"

Now "torpedo" was new so I took a look. Across the room my tampons were flying from front to front.

"Where did  you get those?" I asked.

"From a box in the toilet." That is where I kept them. Logical place. "They are awsome!

OK.  I stopped laughing and after the friend had left, I decided it was time for a talk of some kind.

"Do you know what I use them for? Your torpedo's?"

"No?"

I told him. He looked at me in disbelieve.

"Aaaaargh!" he exclaimed.

After that talk, there was no bloodshed with torpedo’s anymore. Well, there was, but I won’t go into that.

My second son the alien was also obsessed with the military, you couldn't make him happier than  giving him an old nazi -or British helmet and soldier uniform stuff from an army dump. With his friends he would go into the dunes and fight complete battles. As there are plenty of old bunkers where we live, he liked to snoop around there, and come home smelling like catpee. As the Noordsvaarder, a piece of the island, was also being used as excersize ground for NATO F-16's to drop bombs,  that was exciting in a way too I suppose. Those F16’s sure made a lot of noise as they came to bomb at a distance of less than an mile from our village.

As he was about seven, he  came home one day, carrying something on his shoulder.

“What is that?” I asked. It was something blue.

“A bomb!” he proudly said as he let the thing fall down on the sand of the garden.

“A bomb?” I looked. Yes, it was. It really was a bomb!

I told him to leave the thing alone and we went in the house. I called the police.

“My son just took a bomb home, what am I supposed to do with it?”

“A bomb?”

“Yes, from the range.”
“O god!”

I started to feel a bit unpleasant.

“You must phone the local council and don’t touch it!”

“I won’t touch it. Will you come for it?”

“No way!”

I phoned the local council and repeated what I had said. I was put on hold. Three times.

“Call the police?” somebody squeeked.

“They told me to call you.”

“You must call Jan.” Jan de Hek was the man who worked for the military, but wasn’t in it himself I think. I tried calling him, but he was not home. The local council called me.

“He will come, we have spoken to him. He wil check out the bomb. In the mean time, don’t do anything!”

In the kitchen we waited. Then Jan’s jeep came, he and his dog had been out on the beach all day I think. He stepped out, took a look at our bomb, picked it up and threw it in the back of his car. He drove away. Later I heard it had not been dangerous.

My youngest son is more like me. Not much into army stuff. Last night he was looking for something in the kitchen.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“The screwdriver.”

“That must be in the scullery somewhere.”
“I know.”

“So why look for it here?”

“I have more light here.”

Yes. HE is my boy.