Pizza Scientist

There are moments where your child says something that you will remember forever, when they say something that you will never forget.

Sometimes what he says is like a single flower that is beautiful and gentle and unexpectedly gorgeous. Other times it arrives like a huge overflowing amazing bouquet of dazzling wonderment and you end up thinking, “Wow, where did this come from?”

Walking home after picking the boys up from school, Zed (who is seven) was holding my hand and chatting away when he looked up and asked me…

“Dad, what do you want me to be when I grow up?”

And I was momentarily speechless because of the question.

I was speechless because the question is usually reversed and asked by the adult looking down (physically and perhaps even emotionally) at the child. I remember my step-grandmother asking me the question when I was a teenager and me giving a less than genuine response.

And I was also speechless because I did want to give him a sincere answer. What did I want him to be when he grew up?

With a lot of wheels turning and steam rising from my head, I eventually replied, “I want you to do whatever makes you happy. If you enjoy what you’re doing, that would be great.”

Zed gave my response some thought and replied, “I want to be a scientist.”

“If that’s what you want to be, that would be great,” I said.

But he wasn’t finished yet. “And a pizza maker. I want to be a scientist and a pizza maker.”

“Ahhh, so a scientist by day, but a pizza maker by night?”

“No, I would be a pizza maker during the day. That way I could have pizza for lunch.”

“And you’d be a scientist at night?”

“No, I’d make pizza for lunch and dinner. And then I’d be a scientist after.”

“Okay,” I replied.

But this is the kicker…

He continued, “And as a scientist, I would discover a formula so that you and Mum would never die. That way you could stay with me forever.”

And again, I was speechless at his insight. But even more so this time.

--> I think that at age seven the idea of your parents’ death must tickle the back of their mind. Not quite a toothache that is constantly prodded into focus with each slip of the tongue. Perhaps it’s more like a rip in a pair of jeans – it should be patched, but it can’t be perfectly patched, so you’re aware of their faults and you wear them a little more carefully and you try not to think about when they’re going to have to be thrown out.

(That’s right: all parents are like a pair of jeans that each child will eventually wear out, grow out of and that will eventually be cast aside. All I can hope is that I am a comfortable, all-time favourite pair of jeans.) <--

I finally responded, “Zed, that sounds lovely. So you would be a pizza maker by day, have pizza for lunch and dinner, and then be a scientist at night.”

“Yes. And when I found the formula, I would invent a grenade and blow up the lab.”

“Reee-ally?” I replied.

“Yes. Oh! No! I also want to discover a formula to make dogs talk.”

--> We don’t have a dog, so of course Zed is fascinated by them. Loves them. Loves the idea of them. But hates the thought of having to clean up their poop. “Zed,” we say, “you know you’d have to pick up their poo.” “Welll,” he responds, “Maybe we could…” And somehow it turns from a discussion about puppies into a discussion of how to avoid picking up poo. <--

“So you would be a pizza maker by day, scientist by night, discover a formula to make Mummy and me live forever, and then a formula to make dogs talk. And then you’d blow up the lab?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

And I smiled at him as I held his hand and said, “If that’s what you want to do, it sounds lovely.”

In summary…

He will give food to the world. He will make it a better place for parents and dogs. And then, when he is done, he will leave in a blaze of glory.

Not a bad plan.