There are Monsters Everywhere

This was the first post of an abandoned blog I wrote called "There are Monsters Everywhere." I've since decided to lump all my blog entries into two buckets: My Wife Rules, and Matt's Scratch Pad.


I have had a blast writing My Wife Rules over approximately the past year. However, from time to time I would find myself attempting to sort of shoehorn in stories about my kids that, if I were completely honest with myself, had little to do with my wife.

But without my wife, I wouldn't have any kids, I would tell myself, which represents some pretty darn shrewd thinking. But still, in order to preserve the original intent of My Wife Rules with greater purity, to form a more perfect onion, ensure access to domestic tranquilizers, provide for the common cold, etc., etc., I do hereby establish this new blog, There are Monsters Everywhere.

The name comes from one of those little incidents that all parents experience in such rapid succession day after day that it may take months or sometimes years for the throwaway silt to be separated out from the true gems that somehow end up lodged in our memories for good.

It's not much of a story, really. I was just exiting my bedroom into the common nook at the end of the hall, which we share with the nursery and our boys' room. Suddenly my three-year-old burst out of his door, brandishing a miniature, bright-red chainsaw given to him by an adoring uncle that emits fairly realistic noises (the chainsaw, not the uncle, though he emits fairily realistic noises too). His sun-bathed blond hair was protruding wildly in every direction, reminiscent of Hobbes' faithful comrade Calvin, and a wild, wide look was in his eyes, which were magnified by miniature, matching bright-red safety goggles.

He squeezed the trigger on the chainsaw, and the little chain rattled around the perimeter of the saw as the speaker emitted sounds worthy of felling the very Cedars of Lebanon (gotta love modern electronics). He struck out wildly in every direction for foes unseen and then, with a gruff attitude through gritted teeth exclaimed, "There are monsters everywhere!!!"

And I kind of have to agree with him, having been a boy once myself. I'm not talking about the all-too-real monsters, such as billionaire despots who murder their captive subjects or fund managers who rob their investors blind. I refer to the fancied fables fabricated in the minds of children who are, as yet, unspoiled from the world; the whimsical and strangely beautiful products of pure imagination that are as entertaining and endearing as they are threatening.

I'm talking about the shivers we used to give ourselves by repeating ghost stories. I'm talking about the enemy we used to shoot down, always in the next yard over, which provided ample excuse to climb the fences. I'm talking about the Tyrannosaurus Rex that every two-year-old boy stores under his pillow for safe-keeping, and oh by the way, just in case he ever needs a powerful ally with death mandibles full of six-inch long, razor-sharp teeth.

But it's more than just monsters. I'm also talking about the magic that is real, if never quite visible; of fairies with translucent wings and magic wands; of pet tigers and pet cheetahs and pirate ships with Jolly Roger sails and sword fights and princess gowns and superheroes.

I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that you kind of sort of wish that you had enough courage to talk to that girl at recess after all. Somewhere private, like behind the swings.

I'm talking about waking up one morning and noticing that girls have legs.

I'm talking about every experience of unbridled joy born of pure childhood innocence. Memories preserved in vivid technicolor with Disneyland-like special effects of smells and sounds and sensations that seem all too hard to come by in a grown-up, scheduled, air-conditioned, practical world.

I'm talking about reliving the magic with my own kids.

I have no idea where this blog might meander to, but one thing I do know: it's going to be a lot of fun getting there.