Last year, right around the time that the Game of Thrones season premiere was airing, Becky told our daughter, Makayla, to clean her room. Instantaneously, Makayla replied, “I already did that.” In disbelief, Becky walked/stormed upstairs to her room to check and found it was clean in the sense that there was a path from the door to her bed with the side looking like the seven hills of Rome. “This room is not clean! For all, I know there could be a dragon living in this mess!” And so began the infamous chapter of Sir Jaxson the Dragonslayer.
From this innocent rebuke, heard by myself and Jaxson as we were having a mock sword fight with cardboard wrapping paper tubes, Wiffle ball bats, and inexplicably a plastic bucket and spade started a mania in Jax. He had to slay the dragon. He turned to me and said, “I don’t want to en garde with you. I get the dragon!”
“You’re going to slay the dragon?” I inquired.
“I’m going to slay the dragon!” he yelled. At which point he promptly turned, ran upstairs in nothing but a diaper, yelling “I save you Tay-Tay (or Kay-Kay) I slay the dragon!” Becky and I had a chuckle the first five or six times this happened that day, he would run upstairs and yell at the dragon and flee once the dragon apparently turned toward him. I even joined in once or twice, you know to keep it fun, and unsure of what was scaring him as we fruitlessly hunted Old Coacervo (Ok, I embellished the name here, at the time I called him the hoarder but the Latin word for it sounds much grander when recounting our adventure) And while I’m positive there was not a dragon hoarding dirty clothes named Old Coacervo, I did inquire as to the possibility of a tiny hobo living within the chaos.
Finally, around the onset of dusk, Jaxson stormed up the stairs once more, yelling about slaying the dragon causing another laugh. Except this time was different, this time he did not just yell, this time there was a loud crashing and the straining noise of a motor accompanied by the triumphant shout of, “I got the dragon!”
I should also note there was a yell of “Get out of my room!” by an inexplicably angry Makayla. My daughter has never wanted to be the damsel in distress. nor does she want her brother in her room at any point (I generally share the same idea, I don’t want Jaxson in her room as I’m afraid he will be sucked into a vortex and disappear forever.) However, in Jaxson’s defense, in his mind, he did slay the monster and save her.
At that point, I figured it was his imagination or he killed the tiny hobo. Either way, it was a good thing, plus if he got the tiny hobo it would prove to Makayla how truly grotesque her bedroom was and a move would be made to remedy that fact. And if that lazy moocher was gone, now I would only have seven of them instead of eight.
At that moment I heard the motor strain harder and I smelled the ozone.
Makayla screamed for him to stop destroying her room. I ran up the stairs as Wyatt sat comfortably with a look that avered our collective insanity.
Jax then informed me the dragon was angry and hurt, not dead. It sure was. Once I arrived, to a rotating fan busted on the floor with Jaxson standing victorious over it. He was clad in a paw patrol shirt, a goalie’s helmet that was three sizes too big, and a diaper. His tiny chest puffed as he brandished a Wiffle ball bat like a sword and the beach bucket with spade still attached as a shield. I turned the fan off and unplugged it. He then yelled, “The dragon is dead!”
The dragon was dead. Long live the dragon.