My daughter loves dinosaurs. I don’t know why because she plays with them wrong. Everyone knows that the correct way to play with dinosaurs is to grab one in each hand and bash them together over and over again while making noises in your throat that sound like a Rottweiler devouring a badger. My daughter prefers to tuck them in…
…make houses out of books for her Mama sauropod and turn Nerf bullets into hats..
So when I came upon this apparent feeding frenzy one day I had a glimmer of hope. Elmo’s days of infernal giggling had come to end. These adorable herbivorous dinosaurs from the Land Before Time had heard enough. I could almost hear his ligaments snapping as Petri tore flesh from his carcass. I could smell the stink of death upon Littlefoot’s breath. I could feel the bloodthirsty rage in Cera’s eyes. I looked down upon Elmo’s sad repose, imagining Ducky’s bill grinding his little red furry bones into dust. When I turned toward my daughter, with mocked concern for Elmo’s well being, she corrected me. “No! Kissing Dada! They’re kissing!”
Her dinos peaceful existence will come to a close soon enough. Soon my son will be able to crawl. Once he does, by the laws of sheer probability, the first thing he will put in his mouth will be dinosaur, and I have a feeling that when that happens a battle will commence between the two of them that will rival anything ever seen during the Jurassic. And soon after that, unfortunately, some playmate of Josie’s will make an innocent comment about dinosaurs being “boys things” and they will be cast aside to Grant. He will undoubtedly pick them up with both hands, bash them together, and make sounds in his throat that will cause me to have the irrational fear that Clover is attacking a badger in the living room.
And I will be left in a pretty pink princess world awash in the nostalgia of the days when Josie was my baby Diplodocus and I was her Dada.