Bad Love
My four-year-old son's best friend broke his heart.
by Kriss Malone Grossman
July 26, 2007
Not so Jonah. Not yet, anyway, no small thanks to the dinosaur dig fifth birthday party Jonah threw last month. The build-up was as heavy as it would be for prom, probably because Zev anticipated it for months and was promised the seat of honor. Let me note here just how much Zev loves Jonah: enough to whisper his name upon waking each day, like a love-struck coma survivor coming to; enough to pine for a playdate they had — last December; enough, even, to ditch a long-coveted green-apple lollipop in order to wrestle Jonah in the park. When the big day finally arrived, Zev carefully selected his outfit (one usually reserved for fishing with his father), thoughtfully combed his hair (a first), and once at the party commenced to dig for dinosaur eggs in unbridled ecstasy. He then bashed in a humongous T-Rex piñata and watched a miniature homemade volcano explode, an emblem of his own erupting emotion for his beloved Jonah, who throughout the shindig sweetly referred to Zev as his "best friend." Ah, Jonah was making our boy so very happy. Then it was time for cake, a giant homemade affair in the shape of a spiky brontosaurus, which scandalized all the parents present — all our kids wanted Jonah; now they'd want his mommy too. Zev, seated next to Jonah and pumped on the insanity of a roomful of four- and five-year-olds jacked on punch and prehistoric happenings, reached out when the cake came forth and gently laid a hand on Jonah's shoulder.
I shouldn't have been surprised that Jonah swatted it away. As if that weren't enough, he told Zev he'd had enough of him, then busted out his stock line: "I don't want to play with you anymore." Zev's pain was palpable. After he came home from the party, he wandered around the front yard, clutching his laden bucketful of favors and candy but never digging in, like a mommy cat might drag around a dead kitten before giving it up for good. At dinner, wearing the green dinosaur T-shirt he received at the party, he recounted the day's high points, absently fondling a plastic dinosaur egg, then quietly confessed that he never wanted to go to Jonah's house again. Still, We knew we couldn't protect Zev from this irresistible bad boy.
like suffering Werther, he wouldn't let go: before we tucked him in and told him how much we loved him, he asked if he could change out of his jammies and back into the party T-shirt. That, more than anything, broke Ed's and my hearts. We knew we couldn't protect Zev from this irresistible bad boy, any more than we could keep all his beloved balloons from eventually losing their air.
It's been a month since the party, and while Zev talks up Jonah a smidge less, his affection is far from extinct. He continues to pull that party T-shirt from the drawer almost every day, which stirs in me considerable melancholy. But rather than saying, "Don't you realize what Jonah did to you?" and suggesting we torch the shirt, I nod as Zev pulls it on and begins to reenact that fated fiesta's highlights — piñata, rushing lava, burying and unearthing toy fossils: it's Jonah therapy, à la the balloon wall. And while he has yet to recover from how Jonah hurt him that day, I know he's working it out, just like he did with all those the balloons — teaching himself, one pop at a time, how to move on.
©2007 Kris Malone Grossman and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Kris Malone Grossman earned a BA in English from the University of California, Berkeley, and an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College, and has taught writing at Hofstra University. She makes her home in Ridgefield, CT, with her husband and two sons. |
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