Koopa Crazy

Robby has gone through a lot of phases in his young life. The trains that he used to treasure are now boxed and in the garage, replaced by cars and Lincoln Logs. Slowly, Little Bear and The Wiggles have given way to odd Lego sword fighting cartoons and Superheroes. (He still cuddles up and watches Bearenstein Bears with me, although I suspect that he does this because he knows it makes me happy rather than because he enjoys the show.) I know that outgrowing toys and activities is an expected part of childhood. As a Mom, I love seeing him explore new things and push the horizon. But I have to admit that packing up his previously prized treasures always feels bittersweet as it serves as a reminder that my little boy is growing up.

There is one phase that I don't think I'll mourn when it is outgrown. Robby has begun a turtle obsession. To be accurate, he refers to turtles as "Koopas" (based on the Mario Bros. games) and he probably makes reptilian references at least a hundred times a day. 

Around the house and in private, he has requested that we call him "Robby Koopa." I am now "Momom Koopa" and Scott is "Daddy Koopa." He has a "koopa dinner" and a "koopa bath" before getting in his "koopa pajamas" and tucking his "koopa fins into his koopa shell" for bed. By the time the day is over, I am going Koopa crazy!

I must confess that a few nights ago I was a bad koopa Momom. Before you continue reading, I must preface by saying that I have never done something like this in the past. I realize that my actions were out of character, and I am both embarrassed and disappointed in my temporary lapse of judgement.

In a moment of exhaustion and yearning for a simple conversation that doesn't involve the term koopa, I am hesitant to admit that I met my breaking point. When Robby jokingly asked me if we were having "koopa" for dinner (for the third time that day), instead of my typical "I would never eat a cute little koopa," something made me say "Yes, we are having koopa roast." He looked shocked, but that didn't stop me from spinning my tale.

I claimed to have walked into the woods to look for the young turtles when he was at school. I came upon a nest full of little babies, which are the tastiest because their little necks are tender and tasty. As if that wasn't disturbing enough, I proceeded to demonstrate how I held the shell down with my prosthetic, grasped the neck and pulled the little koopa out. I then triumphantly put all the deshelled little koopas into a bag and cooked them in the crockpot all day.

Somewhere in the middle of my story, Robby's look of shocked disbelieve morphed into horror. I should have stopped earlier, but for some reason I was having a really good time with the little koopa catching story. Finally, he said, "Please tell me that you didn't kill a koopa, Momom." His little eyes swelled with tears, and I knew I had taken the joke too far. I assured him that I was kidding and promised that I would never hurt a koopa. The rest of the evening, along with the next two days, I paid my penance for my koopa cooking joke by constantly affirming that I would never hurt or eat a turtle.

Other than provide me with a fleeting sense of amusement and a great deal of remorse, my story did nothing to quell the koopa fascination. Yesterday we took Robby to the aquarium. After looking at the map and planning our route, Robby took the lead. He ran past the sharks without a second look, breezed through the dolphin exhibit and hurried past all of the tropical fish. We had only been there for 25 minutes and, according to our pint sized tour guide, had seen everything except one exhibit.

We spent the next two hours looking at the koopas.