December 3 2007

There comes a time in every father’s life that he has to face the tough, tough moment.
Yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s frightening. Yes, there are flying monkeys.
But yes, at some point, you have to watch The Wizard of Oz.
I’ve been avoiding it — let’s face it, we all love that movie, but is there anything more terrifying than the Wicked Witch to a five-year-old? Well, having to take a bath when you’re not done playing Leapster, true. But besides that. My friend Scott watched that movie exactly once, and was so terrified he never tried again. He is now nearly 50. And still won’t try.
However, ever since Max turned five-and-a-half a few weeks ago, I knew I was putting this off too long.
I was singing along to “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” when Max turned to me and asked, “Daddy, have you seen this movie before?” I explained that I grew up in in the days before VCRs and DVDs — a fact he is certain could not possibly be true — but the movie came on once a year, and every year I watched it with my sister and my mommy and daddy.
Max did not understand why I started crying then, so he turned back to the TV.
He was a little shaky at the poison poppies (”Daddy! What is the witch doing to them!”) but otherwise made it through OK (better than I did, I guess). His favorite was Glinda, the Good Witch (”She was so beautiful, I thought she was a princess”). But when we went to bed, he said, “Daddy, tell me a Wizard of Oz story. But leave out the scary parts.”
So I did. I told the story of the time the Wizard of Oz gave everybody vanilla ice cream.
As he started to doze, Max asked one of those questions that makes him Max.
“Daddy?” he said. “Where does the Red Brick Road go?”
It took me a minute to figure out what he meant. But then it hit me: Around the yellow brick road is a border, which is made of red bricks. If you look at them just so, they could seem like a separate road.
“I don’t know, Max.”
“Did they make a movie where they tell her to follow the Red Brick Road?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody ever asked before, I guess.”
“Why not?”
Good question, my son. Good question.
I wasn’t sure what else I could tell him — but someday, I’ll figure out how to let him know how glad I am that he follows a different path.