I don't understand my son. Actually, I don't understand my entire family.
Atticus is scared of a lot of things. Marching bands (but only the imaginary ones that lurk in his closet at night), complete darkness, the barracuda at the beginning of Finding Nemo.
I'm okay with all that. He's three years old. It's natural to be scared of those things at three (well, most of those things).
My problem is I think he's scared of the wrong things.
Now, don't worry, I'm not going to get all serious and philosophical on you today. We won't be discussing men offering candy in vans with no windows or lakes of fire.
Here's what I think should frighten him:
See that? That is a headless doll. Actually, this doll still has her head (a miracle given that she's been within Atticus's reach for several months now), you just can't see it. This doll has been suspended, seemingly headless, above his bed for the past week. The first time I saw it, I shuddered, but noticed that it didn't seem to bother Atticus. In fact, it didn't seem to bother anyone but me.
What is wrong with them?
That is a doll- a tiny anthropomorphized creature- hanging above the place you sleep, where you're most vulnerable. She's been hanging from her neck for a week, so you know she's gotta be pissed. Why isn't anyone else lying awake at night, waiting to hear her tiny plastic Mary Janes treading across the carpet, seeking out her revenge?
Before you state the obvious, yes, I've thought about pulling her down from there, but honestly, I'm too scared. I've gone and freaked myself out to the point where I'm half-convinced that she's going to have a different face than Molly, the plucky World War II-era American Girl doll that she's supposed to be. Or maybe she will have the proper head, but when I finally rescue her, it will only be to see that face contorted in rage.
Thank goodness they have me around to keep things sane around here.