Marshmallows and Tummyaches

On our way to preschool today, The Boy announced he has a tummyache. This simply means he's tired and instead of going to class, he'd rather go home and play computer games all morning. My usual tactic is to get him thinking about all the wonderful possibilities awaiting him:

"I wonder what activity they'll have out when you get there. I think it's 'B' week. Do you suppose you'll blow bubbles?" (no response) "Or maybe they'll have, hm, b-b-balls. Maybe you'll play with balls today. What do you think?" (nuthin') "Okay, so maybe the babies. Maybe you can dress up the b-b-babies in the home activity station." (no comment)

I noticed the farm field that we pass every day. A month or so ago, this farmer cut down his hayfield and baled the hay in big bales, the oversized round ones shaped like cinnamon rolls. They sat in his field a few days looking very nostalgic, a perfectly pastoral Midwestern Americana scene with the sun streaming across the fields and the cows grazing nearby. Then one day we were surprised to see them wrapped in white plastic and stacked neatly on top of each other in a corner of the field.

"They look like ice cubes," one sister observed.

"Or marshmallows," said another.

"They do!" everyone agreed. "They look just like marshmallows."

"Giant marshmallows for a Giant's cookout," I suggested. "He's saving them to share with his friends. Then they'll have s'mores."

We had fun with that imaginary world of giant marshmallows and every once in a while we'll make a little joke. One day I was driving past having dropped off the girls, when The Boy commented that the cows were eating hay. I said, "Looks like the farmer opened up those bales to feed them."

"What bales?"

"The ones wrapped in plastic. The hay bales." I really thought he knew we were all joking about it. I didn't think he bought into a fantasy giant world. Besides, I was certain he'd seen them in their pre-wrapped state.

"Those aren't hay," he insisted. "Those are marshmallows!"

Now I'm not sure why I stuck with reality. I felt the need to clarify it for him. "They're hay bales--the farmer uses it when he thinks the cows need more nourishment than the grass can provide."

"No!" he started to sound a bit defensive. "Those are not hay. Those are Giant Marshmallows for a campfire."

"We've had fun joking about it, haven't we?"

"Those are marshmallows!"

"Hay."

"Marshmallows!"

"Hay!"

He growled slightly. "They're marshmallows."

I gave in. "They are, aren't they."

"I told you. They're marshmallows."

So this tummyache day, several weeks after the marshmallow/hay disagreement, I was passing the field and proposed, "Hey, why don't I pull over and we'll drag one of those Giant Marshmallows into the van. The girls aren't here, so I think it could fit in the back. You can nibble on it all the way to school today. In fact, you could probably nibble that thing all week and have plenty to share with your sisters. It would last for a long time, it's so huge. What do you think? Shall I pick us up a marshmallow snack?"

He sighed. If I could have seen his eyes in the rearview mirror, I'm sure he was rolling them. "Those aren't marshmallows," he said rather disgustedly. "They're hay."

"Oh. I thought they were marshmallows."

"They aren't. I saw a hole in the plastic with hay sticking out."

"I see."

We may believe in fairies, but evidently I blew it. We don't believe in giants and their marshmallows anymore. I feel bad about it. I do.

But he did go to school and blow b-b-bubbles.