Travels with Baby: Soldier Boy
Sarajevo, Bosnia, teaches us about war, real and pretend.
by Ayun Halliday
July 10, 2007
"Let's think this through." Steering me by my elbow, Greg herded the entire family to a bench several storefronts away. Milo was one monofilament away from losing it, but Greg implemented some horse-whisperer techniques and laid out a counter-proposal. The way he saw it, each child should be given a set amount, a sort of seed grant to spend as he or she saw fit. I immediately conceded the superiority of his plan, which was not only brilliant, but also educational. It would let me pretend we were reinforcing the homework they weren't doing. It sounded good to the kids, too, even Milo, who pocketed his ten-mark bill with something like relief.
After fifteen minutes trolling the bazaar, peacefully pawing at the merch, we decided that we'd be more effective, i.e. we'd get to the museum Greg and I wanted to visit sooner, if we split up, each parent escorting one child. I got Milo. "Is it okay if I know what I want now?" he asked.
"Sure, it's your money. Do you remember where you saw it?"
He described a newsstand we had passed earlier that that displayed a few toys and other non-touristy tchotckes behind glass. I remembered it because Milo had found it so painful that I wouldn't agree to any of the items at which he pointed. All former bets were off, though, now that he had his own money to blow. I navigated the ancient maze as Milo skipped by my side, alternately singing and fretting that I wouldn't be able to find it, or that someone else would have beaten him to the punch, snapping up the one thing on which his heart
Technically, the Special Forces Combat Forces gift pack is a gun-free plaything . . . Still. We were in Sarajevo. was truly set, a made-in-China, plastic play set featuring two muscle-bound commandos and a toy grenade.
You heard me.
Greg's plan had utterly failed to address my long-standing no-guns policy. To invoke it now would have been dirty pool. "Do I have enough?" Milo asked hopefully.
"You tell me. It's eight point seventy-five."
He held his breath and calculated. "I do!" he screamed joyfully.
"That's right, you do. Now, are you sure this is what you really, really want?"
He flung his arms around my thighs. "Oh, thank you, mama! Thank you! Thank you!"
"Well, it's your money," I smiled. Or rather, your money and my reputation — though, technically, the Special Forces Combat Forces gift pack is a gun-free plaything. Unless one counts a flimsy walkie-talkie with a conveniently barrel-like antenna and a lurid cardboard backdrop featuring a realistic, fiery explosion, that grenade is its only weapon.
Still. We were in Sarajevo.
©2007 Ayun Halliday and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Ayun Halliday is author of The Big Rumpus and No Touch Monkey! and the popular zine East Village Inky. She is a columnist for Bust and a frequent contributor to Babble. Visit AyunHalliday.com.
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