What's playing?

Owen and I just had one of those arguments, the kind of ridiculous fight in which you both retreat to extreme positions that, in fact, you'd really rather not occupy, let alone defend.

It was so much easier when he was little. Back then it came down to knowing what film we were in today. From the moment when Owen first realized that movies tell stories--at about 14 months old--he was a film buff. Movies provided him with jumping-off platforms for his rich fantasy life. It took Keith and me a little while, however, to cotton on to what was going on.

The first glimmer came when Owen and I were in the grocery store. About two years old, he was sitting in the little seat at the front of the cart as I pushed up and down the aisles. All of a sudden, he said, loudly, "My father's not crazy!" "Umm, no dear, Daddy's not crazy," I whispered. "MY FATHER'S NOT CRAZY!" he shouted, louder. "That's right, honey, he's not, " I said soothingly, in low tones. "MY FATHER'S NOT CRAZY! he bellowed, again and again, as I hustled through canned goods and produce, head down eyes averted. Finally, in the checkout line, it hit me: Of course. Belle. Beauty and the Beast. Into the scene I jumped, my lines correct and ready, and all was well.

I didn't take quite as long, then, when one day Owen kept slinging a backpack over one shoulder, running through the front screen door, deliberately letting it slam, and calling out, "Don't worry, Mom!" Cody. Rescuers Down Under. Tho' of course, in that particular movie, the mom should worry as her son is just about to be kidnapped by an evil poacher out to kill the golden eagle. But then the mice Bianca and Bernard save the day, so hell, why worry?

Some of our friends did worry, however. One evening, after Owen had spent the day with his friend Wesley, Keith and I were having drinks with Wesley's parents. We had barely sat down and taken our first sips when Cindy said, "You guys, we're really concerned about Owen." As I recall, we said something along the lines of "huh?" "We're worried about his self-esteem," Cindy explained. I think she caught me in mid-sip and I spewed gin across the table. "Self-esteem?" I choked. "He's friggin' 3 years old." Bill picked up the gauntlet. "No, really, we're really worried. Owen thinks he's stupid. He says so all the time." Keith and I looked at each other, bewildered. "Well, what exactly does he say?" asked Keith. He's very wise, my Keith. Bill--such a good, decent, caring man--looked us both in the eyes, clearly desperate to communicate to us how much this mattered, and replied, "He keeps knocking himself in the head and saying 'I don't have a brain.'" We burst out laughing. Bill and Cindy were aghast. We sputtered, "The Scarecrow. Wizard of Oz." Thank God Owen wasn't the Tin Man that day, or they'd have thought he needed major surgery.

Owen is still a film buff but he keeps his fantasy life well-hidden from his parents. I don't know what movie we're in any more. I just know, no matter what's playing, I'll be in the front row, applauding one of my all-time favorite leading men.