My sons used to remind me of Dennis the Menace. Years ago my husband and I left them with a baby-sitter while we went to company dinner. Our young, elementary-aged son terrorized the baby-sitter until she ran out of the house. More than blankets warmed the backside of one Dennis that night.
I don’t know how long it took the baby-sitter to recover from the trauma. I was so embarrassed I didn’t talk about it for years. I am quite comfortable talking about it now, as long as no one asks what he did to scare a teenager twice his age and size.
A couple years ago, my college-aged sons talked about one of their childhood exploits. It happened while I was gone, of course. A now mature Dennis began the revelation asking, “Hey, Mom do you know why the cushions have those gashes in them?”
I shrugged, “Too many children using them for gymnastics I guess.”
He smiled at my innocence, “We were expressing our anger creatively. The cushions were shields to catch the knives we were throwing at each other.”
“Throwing knives at each at each other?”
“Yeah, they stuck in the cushions every time.”
My daughter piped up, “They did, Mom. I told them they shouldn’t do that.” she added like a prim little Margaret. “They just yelled at me to get under the other couch out of the way. I was scared. I hid under the couch and watched them.”
“And you were how old when this happened?”
“Six or seven.” She was driving a car before they confessed that secret.
I heard about it immediately when Dennis bothered our neighborhood Mr. Wilson. Wilson did not like kids in his yard. My son was running all over the neighborhood playing with a dog and forgot. In the excitement of the chase, dog and boy traipsed across Wilson’s yard. Wilson raged at Dennis and Ruff for romping through his flower beds.
As always, Dennis the Menace was sorry, but Wilson’s wrath was not easily dissipated. Especially not after he saw Dennis dancing in the street in front of his house. Wilson marched over to our house, found my husband and told him that our son was mocking him.
B the time I came home, son had endured a serious encounter with father. After my husband finished telling me about the visit from Mr. Wilson, I turned to my recalcitrant son, “What were you doing out in the street in front of his house?”
He looked at me so innocently, “An Indian peace dance.”
I kept a straight face when I admonished him, “Don’t ever do that again. Be polite and stay out of his yard.”
We no longer live in the same neighborhood as the Wilsons. And in spite of their imprudence, each of our Dennis the Menaces lived to adulthood and horrified us with tales of what really happened when I left the house for a few minutes.
School is out for the summer. My children are away at camp, college and work. Do you know where your children are and what they are doing? Are you sure?