Will there be cows?
I don't know.
Cause I'm not going to the zoo if there's gonna be cows.
Kay.
I'm far from delighted to admit that the fear of cows isn't exactly a new thing in my house hold. Walking home from visiting his preschool Calvin suddenly stopped, screamed and ran to Joann and I in clear panic.
What the fuck?
We thought.
What's the matter?
We said.
I can't see it. I can't see it.
What?
The cow.
There isn't a cow.
Then what's that noise?
We paused for a moment. Listened to the air rustling the wind. Then listened to the air rustling the wind chime. The wind chime hanging from the awning of a little cottage on our right. And we knew instantly what he was talking about.
The wind chime sounded like a cow bell.
Not just any cow bell, but the exact same pitch of cow bell that signals to an avid "Slingshot Cowboy" that there is about to be a stampede. A stampede where furious cows with deep red eyes charge the player in all their pixelated fury.
The first time Calvin played this game, which no respecting parent would allow their child to play since it simply consists of launching rocks at grazing cows, the first time he played this game and the angry cows stampeded toward him, he threw the iPhone ten feet from where he was sitting and ran to find us. Eventually he found a unique love for the game where he was satisfied with launching the rocks, but would close his eyes and turn off the sound at the very moment the cow bell chimed.
Is it over?
He would ask.
Sure, I would say.
So when the wind chime scared him out of his pants, we thought it far too funny to give it any concern. We had and have other concerns, and really, what are the odds that Calvin is going to need to stand his ground during a conflict with a charging bull?
And so when he mentioned his fear of cows as the number one concern when attending a field trip to the zoo, I realized something.
I kind of don't care.
Central to his challenge in life is going to be fighting his flight response in the face of the unknown and poorly perceived.
Who am I to stand in his way?
How many times is someone going to tell him that butterflies are not dangerous?
It's not gonna hurt you, its not gonna hurt you, its not gonna hurt you . . . etc.
Doesn't work.
Never did.
Try it yourself.
The apathetic approach is far less stressful and effective.
Dad! There's a bug!
Here's a fly swatter son. Kill the fucking thing or go inside, I don't care which.
It has a 50% success rate.
Just slightly above Prozac.
And self indulgence does not require a prescription.
I was thinking about this a lot today as I dragged my struggling son from exhibit to exhibit. Watching animals in a zoo fills me with a powerful ambivalence. The tree hugging side of my psyche wants tigers to run and birds to fly, and monkeys to masturbate in private.
The logical side of me thinks that if you could ask a two toed sloth if it would prefer the jungle to a nice cozy tree limb and three squares a day you'd probably get the kind of violent eye roll exclusive to teenage girls.
Most of those animals would be unable, for whatever reason, to go home again and enjoy the freedom of survival.
And, really, they can't feel any more trapped than I do when asked to participate in a conference call.
We all exist in our little cages. And I'm not pointing out anything poetically new. The cubicle metaphor has been mined and mined and mined again. Still . . . I was thinking about all the little cages we build for ourselves and wondering how stressful it has become rattling our tin cups against the bars.
I wanna be a rock star. I want to redecorate the house. Why is there never enough money, food, books, time, sex, sleep, clothes, friends, time, words that rhyme with tertiary, time, wine, money, sex?
Hey Mr. Lion. You wanna pop outta that cage?
Nope.
You sure?
Yup.
Don't you wanna run around, scare a few kids, and stalk something?
Nope, dude, I'm cool.
Don't you wanna sneak outta that cage and take a big fat bite of a freshly deep fried corn dog covered with spicy mustard. Don't you want to burn the roof of your mouth and not entirely care until you've nibbled the crusted cornmeal off the end of the stick?
Seriously dude. I'm cool. Go bother the monkey.
Just don't shake his hand.
Freedom is apathy.
And I'm making corn dogs for dinner.
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