When Andy turned six, an extraordinary thing happened. At the crown of his head there suddenly appeared that mystic sign by which all spirited six-year-old boys are instantly recognized: the cowlick. It looks exactly like Calvin’s cowlick in Calvin and Hobbes.
Six is a wonderful age. The statute of limitations on being a baby hasn’t entirely run out (as Andy says: “You’re a person and I’m your pet baby puppy”), but one is also a highly competent being, capable of such complex operations as tracking the damage points of Pokémon characters and negotiating the exchange of Mage knights. Two nights ago, Andy woke me up at 3:30 a.m. to announce his latest discovery: “Mom!” he shouted, making me jump up, heart pounding, on highest alert, “Mom! I figured out how to make a trampoline! You glue slinkies to the bottom of a rock and then you jump on it.” “That’s great,” I said, “but it’s nighttime. Go back to sleep.”