Jiminy Cricket

This morning, we finally took down our Christmas tree and accoutrements, sparse though they were. We'd put off the deed for a week, and for good reason: it's dangerous business to undecorate. Don't believe me? Well, ask my sister Sarah, who might be willing to share her tale of woe and warning as soon as her head stops spinning from her current dose of painkillers. It ain't pretty, people.

Although we were able to avoid any serious injuries at our house, we did sustain minor losses. To begin with, Carter was heartbroken when Trey announced his plans to denude our Charlie Brown tree, and begged for clemency. I had a momentary vision of him encouraging the wilted branches to bloom and flourish, a la Fern and Wilbur, but Trey wisely stepped in with some bit about preserving the specialness of Christmastime. I missed the finer talking points, but Carter was placated and the work continued.

Ornaments, stockings and such were finally boxed and stacked and ready to return to the black hole we call a garage, so we turned our attention to going out for lunch. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when I heard an unusual sort of commotion. Lo and behold, Carter and Spencer had (collectively, it seems) pushed a side table from the front room to the door of Carter's room. An impressive feat, yes, but far from the most interesting activity in this milieu.

Beneath the table, they were crouched over a yellowed cardboard box of inexpensive glass ornaments that Trey and I have had for at least 15 years. Spencer was laughing as Carter, wielding a tiny toy hammer, gleefully SMASHED EACH ONE OF THE ORNAMENTS.

It took a full minute for me to rehinge my jaw so I could commence to yelling. In short order, Trey was by my side, equally stunned and noisy. Incredibly, the boys were even more amused at our red faces and raised voices. Trey corralled Spencer and the wide-eyed, innocent Katie away from the mess and, muttering under his breath, cranked up the vacuum as I escorted Carter to a quiet corner of the house so we could have a little chat.

Together, we reviewed the situation. He struggled to control his mirth as I explained the sentimental value of the ornaments, the potentially permanent relocation of his tiny hammer to Toy Siberia and the very serious dangers presented by broken glass.

Passing through the room, Trey said, "Tell him about your foot." So I showed Carter the Frankenstein-like scar on my right foot and told him that, when I was 17, a piece of glass had cut my foot so badly that I'd needed stitches and THREE shots. The mixture of disgust and awe on his face told me the story had worked its magic, so I filed it away for future use as a cautionary tale against teenage drinking.

A new thought came to me: this could be the perfect opportunity for me to teach him about conscience. "You know, Carter," I explained, "we all have a little voice inside that tries to stop us when we're doing something we shouldn't be doing. Do you know what I'm talking about?" I asked him. He nodded slightly, but looked uncertain. I tried again.

"When you were smashing those ornaments into broken bits, did you hear a little voice inside your tummy say, 'Carter, this is a bad choice?'"

He assumed a serious expression for just a second, then brightened immediately. "I do have a voice in my tummy! It says 'lion.'"

And so we save the discussion of moral precepts for another day.