Momma, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Hitmen...

When my son, Jack, was three (five years ago...aka - a lifetime) we had this conversation in the car on the way to preschool:

Jack: Mom?

Me (driving the car): What?

Jack (with a sigh that made him seem much older - as if he'd conquered potty-training years before...which he hadn't): It's okay if you die.

Me (swerving for no apparent reason): WHAT?

Jack: It's okay if you die. I'll take care of Margaret.

(It should be noted that Margaret wisely says nothing at this point.)

Me: Um, why is it okay if I die? (Note - this is one of the things one never expects - let alone wants - to hear from their child.)

Jack: Well, Margaret can get a job as a rock star and I can support us by being a superhero Jedi.

Me (after thinking about it. there are worse things he could aspire to, after all): You get dental with that?

It was one of those precious conversations you always remember - kind of a Hallmark/Far Side moment. Now fast forward to present day, or, as it is known, the day before yesterday.

Jack: Mom. I know what I'm gonna be when I grow up.

Me (Trying to put dishes away while feeding two dogs and a guinea pig simultaneously): Oh? You aren't going to be a four-star general then become president like Eisenhower? (Oh by the way, long story that. My son is obsessed with WWII to the point he knows as much as a Ph.D in history. Mental note - monitor his viewing of the History Channel more closely.)

Jack (shaking his head with a sigh as if he's talking to a child): I'm going to be an assassin - like in your books.

Me (dropping dishes and dog food on the floor): What?

Jack: Well, you write about assassins and I'm in your next book as Jackson Bombay, so I've decided that's what I will do.

Me: Um, Jack, it's fiction. Mommy writes fiction. There is no Bombay clan and you are not going to be an assassin. You are going to college.

Jack: What do you mean - fiction?

(It's amazing that my son can pick out a King Tiger German tank from, say, your average, everyday, kitchen-sink sort of tank. He can tell you every rank in the military and what weapons they use. But he doesn't know what fiction is. That's probably my bad.)

Me: I made it all up. There is no Bombay Family. And as far as I'm concerned, there won't be one in real life.

Jack (pondering this for a moment): You mean, you write lies?

Me: No! I write fiction - stuff that isn't true - I make things up and put them in my books.

Jack (pointing a very accusing finger at me): You're a liar! How come you don't get punished for that?

Me: It's not lying. It's imagination. And actually, I get paid to do that.

Jack: You're right Mom. I don't want to be an assassin. I want to be a paid liar like you.

Somehow, in a weird way, this satisfies me.

The Assassin