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not real. It didn’t work. The problem was, my dad was a philosopher, and he relied on logic, which failed us horribly when it came to monsters. He had no answer to the monster paradox, which said: If monsters ate every kid they caught, there would be no survivors to tell us they were real, because the kids who knew the truth would all be in the monsters’ stomachs. Iconcluded that kids who said there were no monsters were either hopeful or ignorant, and I believe Cubby came to a similar conclusion, thirty-some years later.
    Most of the time, other activities like eating, sleeping, or making demands on parents distracted him. Those times, monsters were forgotten. Then there would be the moments when he was alone, in a reflective mood, and monster thoughts would come to the fore in his little brain. If he thought about them too long, he’d get scared. When that happened we knew it, because he’d come running. “Mama! Dada! Monsters!” He would leap into his mother’s arms, where he was warm, safe, and protected. She would reassure him and pat him gently on the back. After a moment, he would usually settle down and return to his Legos and other amusements.
    I watched that happen time and again. Sweet as it was, I thought it would be better if he learned self-defense. Mom agreed. She knew she would not always be there to protect him, and he needed to be able to resolve monster scares on his own.
    She filled an empty spray bottle with colored water. “This is monster spray,” she said as she handed him the bottle with the greatest of gravity. “Keep it with you, and spray anywhere you think there might be monsters. They hate the stuff, and will always run away.”
    “But if they don’t …” She gave him a plastic Wiffle Ball bat. “If you see any monsters, whack them hard with this.” Cubby put the bat next to his bed. He went back to his Legos with a newfound sense of security. It was amazing, the way that tyke accepted whatever his mom told him, as if it was The Word.
    A few weeks later, I decided to test Cubby’s preparedness. Placing a blanket over my head, I crept around the corner from our room to his. Poised in the doorway, a shapeless blue blanket mass, I growled. Softly, but with menace and conviction.
    Cubby turned around. “Hey,” he yelled, but I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me, so I just growled in return. In theblink of an eye, Cubby spun around, grabbed the bat, and began pounding the blanket as hard as he could, all the while yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mama! Monsters!” It was shocking how hard and fast that tyke could swing a bat. I threw the blanket off, stunned, and he whacked me square on the head. Then he did it again, either before or because he recognized me. Quick as a flash, he dropped the bat and ran past me into the living room, yelling, “Mama! Save me!” He leapt into her arms as I rounded the corner to see her laughing.
    “Very good, Jack. You defended yourself and the monster just turned out to be Dada.”
    What could I say to that?
    I didn’t growl at him very often after that, and he didn’t whack me with the bat.

Cubby continued to get bigger and stayed healthy. That was good, but it also meant a never-ending stream of new expenses as Cubby outgrew one thing and needed another. He was nothing like a dog, which was practically set for life once you got it a food dish and a blanket. Kid ownership is expensive. Before Cubby was born, we had purchased nesting materials, and that was costly enough. After he arrived, there were new bills every day. Little Bear nursed him, but her milk alone wasn’t enough. There were baby foods to buy, too. Then there was the Stork Diaper Service and an endless array of clothes. There were objects to stimulate his growing brain—mobiles to hang overhead and chunky rubber things to grab and chew. This list of baby paraphernalia kept growing, with no end in sight.
    Seeing all that, I redoubled my efforts to make