It’s 8:27pm, and my big guy begs, “Just one more chapter??” He holds on to my arm and gets clingy, when all day long he’s been too cool to answer my questions or make eye contact. Three minutes to bedtime, and all of a sudden he wants to tell me all about his day and ask about mine, and then, out of nowhere, “Did Hitler shoot himself in the head? Why would anyone do that? I mean, for Hitler… well, I’m glad he did, but why would anyone else do that?”
He’s seven. My son is seven, and I am not ready to have this conversation. On so many levels.
A month or so ago, while reading a comic book with his dad, there was a reference to the Nazis, and Brian did his best to give a basic explanation. But last week he came home from his school library session with a book of historical fiction titled, “I Survived the Nazi Invasion, 1944,” by Lauren Tarshis. (Have you heard of this series? Apparently this one was just published this year, but there were eight before it, including “I Survived the Attacks of September 11th, 2001,“ and “I Survived the Japanese Tsunami, 2011.“ You know, light reading.) Did I mention he’s seven? A seven year old who’s curious, and has a lot of questions.