My Son Is Possibly William Wallace, Reincarnated
I’m in way over my head with this guy
There’s an ongoing joke in our house, and it never fails to make us snicker. Moments before any outing, our fully prepared, dressed, raring to go 18-month old son, is hurriedly crammed into his stroller, where he writhes and wails as though the seat is molten lava, and we are demons from the Underworld, torturing him yet again into submission.
(Don’t worry, we haven’t arrived at the joke-bit yet. I’m not quite so cruel that my toddler’s tears make me laugh.)
My husband will then usually quip, “Poor Will. He never gets his freedom.”
And then we all laugh and laugh.
It’s not funny at all until I tell you that my son’s name is actually not Will; we have affectionately nicknamed him William Wallace, because the only thing he wants in life, beyond an endless supply of Goldfish crackers, is his freedom. Every time we jovially refer to him as ‘Will,’ we roar “freeedoooommm!” and are sufficiently amused with our little in-joke.
My wee lad would happily don a kilt in his clan’s colours, throw a sword boisterously into the air, and smear blue warpaint on his chubby cheeks while roaring ferociously, if it meant he could be free to let loose and wander wherever his inner-wanderer…
