And We Both Would Win

When our daughter Josephine was in kindergarten, one of her classmates was a boy named Jaan who we've known since he was two: long enough to have formed our own relationship, one not mediated through his parents.

Like many 5-year-old boys, he was interested in exploring power of all kinds, but mostly of the biff-bam-kapow action variety. One day we got into a game of one-upsmanship that started with him "shooting" me with a cannon, a weapon he claimed to be the most powerful in the universe.

I replied by saying, "If you had a cannon, I would dodge your cannon balls, then give you a hug full of love. You would be so happy that you would decide to turn your cannon into a flower pot . . . And we both would win." He shook his head and walked away in a show of comical defeat.

This then evolved into a good-natured, slow-motion argument that took place over the course of months. Each time we saw one another, which was quite often, he would be ready with a new proposal for something that was more powerful than love, often choosing something from the news.

A hurricane? "I would hide from the hurricane with the people I love and when it was over, I would still be here and the hurricane wouldn't . . . And we both would win."

The sun? "The sun is only out half the time, my love will always be there . . . And we both would win."

At first, I think he was genuinely trying to top me, and our discussions would go several rounds, but after awhile, he began to concede his "defeat" right away, with a simple smile and a shrug. I got the sense that as he considered more and more terrible things, it made him happy to be assured that love was the most powerful thing in the universe.

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