A week before Christmas, I took my son London for a pre-holiday visit with his pal, Calvin. The two boys have known each other since they were born and have developed a relationship of a symbiotic nature. Calvin is the more feisty of the two and is known to hiss or spit if the world does not conform to his play plans, which usually involve sewer lines, fire engines and some minor cement work. London is a bit more of a dreamer, fond of sweaters and more fuzzy pursuits, and is happy to hand over a train to his buddy if it means extended play time and leaving with both his eyes unpoked. Even though this last playdate felt more festive with Wassail music playing on the stereo and Christmas wheat in bowls on the dining room table, the business of boys did not fail to amaze and surprise. At a time when they should have been wrapping presents, the dynamic duo found something far more interesting to tie up.
I was in the living room chatting with Calvin’s mother, Marla, enjoying a latte made from their espresso machine, an item I hoped Santa would leave me since I was too ashamed to embrace my metrosexual side and purchase one on my own. The boys exploded out of Calvin’s room, each donning a red firefighter’s helmet. In their hands were lengths of rope; on their faces crept devilish smiles. It looked as though they were two midgets itchin’ for a lynchin’.
“You need to be tied up,” Calvin said and began to lash his mother to her chair with a series of complex nautical knots. London agreed; though not as familiar with this level of bondage, he looked on proudly as his best buddy handcuffed Marla with an expertly tied eight-loop.
“I know,” London said, raising his index finger in the air. “I’ll get the hooker!”
“The what?” I asked, wondering what kind of party they had planned in Calvin’s bachelor baby of a bedroom.
London turned to me. “The hooker, Dad.” His eyes narrowed.”Have I ever scared you wrong?”
He scurried off and returned, dragging a plastic Bob the Builder winch set. I’d obviously missed the episode where Bob and Wendy explore the S & M side of being a handy couple. The refrain, “Can we fix it?” took on a whole new level of meaning for me. Even though their play was innocent, I found it unnerving to watch my son attach a grappling hook to the zipper of Marla’s fleece vest while his little binding buddy used a monk’s knot on her ankles. What does a parent do in times like these, I wondered, even though I hadn’t been invited to their little plaiting parade? Where did these boys get the idea that humans should be wound tightly in cord like the head of a weed wacker? I thought of the bilingual, politically correct cartoons London loves where all rope is fashioned from hemp and such cordage is employed solely for rescuing organic, free-range calves from slaughterhouses. Hell, Calvin was a vegetarian for the love of soy! Or was this scenario a glimpse into a time to come, a vision of some future frat party gone awry?
“Londy, do you want the strap on?” Calvin called.
“The what?” I yelped. Marla would have joined me but the bandana gag muffled her expressions of shock and awe.
“The strap.” Calvin showed me a nylon belt, the kind you see on rock climbers and those silly backpackers from Europe who dress like Robin Williams on Mork and Mindy. He fitted London with his harness as I finished the dregs of my coffee drink. Marla wriggled like Houdini, but I knew better than to untie the problematic knots a pair of three-year-old boys could tie.
“You need to be rescued,” Calvin said to his mother who nodded eagerly in agreement.
“Do you need to be rescued, Dad?” London asked me in turn.
“I sure do,” I said and ran immediately to the espresso machine, hoping there was some Bailey’s around to make my next latte (and me) that much more festive.