Toy Story II

Circumstances conspired to my committing one of the least pardonable sins of parenthood on a recent road trip. I gave in to hungry boy's incessant requests to patronize the Golden Arches (better known as McDeath). At least he got apples instead of fries with the Happy Meal. Silas, of course, cared less about the food than the toy surprise that dad would pass back to him once his food found its way to his belly.

"It's a transformer, I think," I said as I made the awkward handoff to the seat behind me.

"It's a robot, dad, not a transformer," he corrected.

It was a robot, one that fired projectiles from a gun-like attachment sprouting from its right arm. I was thinking about potential lawsuits as the sun said its final goodbyes, heading west. Darkness infiltrated the cab, and I heard the boy rummaging about, straining the limits of booster seat confinement. He had dropped his new toy and, whether or not he could reach it anyway, could not see enough to pinpoint its whereabouts.

"Turn the light on daddy," he said.

I explained to him that I couldn't. It was distracting, kept me from seeing out to the road that I had to concentrate on.

"It's just not safe," I said.

"Just for a second, daddy."

"Not safe," I repeated, "You'll just have to get it when we get home."

"Nooooooo," he moaned; an annoying blend of demanding and whining creeping into his tone. "Turn the light on!"

"No," I said, finally. "And no amount of whining is going to make any difference."

"Fine, than you're not my father. And I'm never ever talking to you again."

There was a long pause. In the silence I determined to ignore the hurtfulness of those words. He didn't mean it.

I think he was considering the impossible impracticality of this vow of silence.

"You're not my father," he repeated, before adding this amendment: "And I'm never ever going to talk to you again, unless I want food or a toy."

I couldn't help but smile a little at that.

Through the rearview mirror, I saw the defiant set of his jaw in the lights of a passing motorist. His countenance soon softened; he drifted off to sleep. I think we both needed it.