My toddler son said something profound the other day. As we played amid a host of plastic screamthings and clangable salad implements appropriated from the kitchen, a ruminative, far-away look appeared his eyes. Summoning the accumulated wisdom of the ages, he placed a steady hand on my shoulder and said the following: "TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK WIWA [window, through which one might view a truck] TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK WIWA WIWA TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK TRUCK WIWA!" He punctuated this monologue by pointing towards the wiwa/window and pooping himself orange.
I empathize with any dumb kid who does a dumb-kid thing - up to a point, which is located far, far, far short of what happened in Steubenville. And that's why I have a hard time reconciling my thoughts on personal accountability with the apologist thrust of Mistakes Kids Make's first-ever video fusillade, independent of the peculiar and unfortunate timing of its arrival.
What I love most about St. Patrick's Day is the authenticity. Even as the gutters run gold with the discharge of a thousand tumescent bladders, nary a celebrant loses sight of the history behind the hooliganism.
My toddler son has entered the annihilatory stage of his relationship with objects. His three favorite pastimes, in no particular order, are emptying a basket filled with baseballs and launching them down the stairs, one by one; using the mini-mallet that came with a recent toy purchase to survey the textural hardiness of our windows and TV screens; and fashioning a crude drum kit out of pots and pans, then attempting to best the 24-minute duration of "Moby Dick."