Benjamin is in the backseat, still in the preschool afterglow. “Mommy,” he says. “I really, really want a pet dog.”
I am accustomed to these statements. Last week, he wanted a pet bull, which he was going to keep in a bull cage in the living room. Currently, there is a circle of rocks in our yard, just in case any passing penguins want to use it for their nest.
“A pet dog,” he repeats. “And a bull, and a cat, and a T-Rex.”
“A T-Rex, huh?” I reply, half-listening.
“Yes, but you can’t let the T-Rex cross the street.”
I start to focus in on what he’s saying. “Why can’t the T-Rex cross the street?”
“Because of the cars.” He looks out the window and sighs, satisfied that we have settled the matter.