Let’s go to the boobies

Philip loves DVDs. He loves to open their cases and make them spin. He pops them out of their cases and spins them on his finger. He inserts discs into his DVD player, watches the opening credits, advances through the scenes and then ejects them. He may repeat this or not. He may let the movie play or not.

I take him to the library on Saturdays to pick out his own DVDs. He always picks six. He chooses movies that I would never dream of borrowing for him: Angels in the Endzone, Barbie in Princess Power, sequels to movies he has never seen. He carefully arranges them in an order that suits him. He keeps them in order when he checks them out and puts them in order inside our library tote bag. They stay in order when laid out on the coffee table side by side. They go back in the same order once stacked.

I used to let him keep the DVDs on the kitchen counter, placed upright between the bread box and toaster. They would be put away for a while, then he would retrieve them, lay them out on the coffee table and begin his spinning and viewing ritual.

Then one day he tore the DVD case.

“No!” I shouted. I took the stack of DVDs away and hid them on the high shelf in my bedroom closet.

Hid is the wrong word. He followed me and knew exactly where they were, but I wouldn’t let him have them. I went to the library by myself the next weekend to return them.

But when the weather got colder and there were fewer outdoor activities with which to entertain Philip, I let him go back to the library. This time, after he played with them and put them on the counter, I tucked them away in my closet before there could be another tearing incident.

“I’m putting your movies away now,” I told him.

This worked out well for several weeks. When he would want them, he would lead me by the hand to the closet. He would toss my hand up.

“Oh, you want your movies?” I would ask. He would grab them from my hand and begin his opening and closing, spinning and playing routine. He would give them back, neatly stacked in order, to be returned to the shelf.

During winter break, I was led to my closet.

“What do you want?” I asked, knowing but curious to see if he would answer.

“Boobies!” Philip said.

So now, if you hear my son ask for boobies (accent on the second syllable), please know he wants to watch Despicable Me 2 or Caillou’s Halloween Adventures and not your breasts.