Transform this

Transformers, ugh. I really do not understand exactly what these things are or the point of their existence. Because my intellect verges on brilliant, I have cleverly deduced that they are objects that turn themselves into something else. From what to what and why, I have no idea. Are they good or evil? Animal, vegetable or mineral? I dunno. What I do know is that they are completely loathsome, and Weston loves them.

At the risk of sounding smug (oops, too late!), we don't have transformers at OUR house. No, we have only hand-rubbed organic wooden toys lovingly crafted by rustic, raw-boned, overalls-clad artisans in America's beleaguered heartland. (yes, BIG FAT RIDICULOUS LIE, but still, no Transformers). Fortunately for poor Weston, his friend Jack has an ample supply of Transformers figures and cartoons. They put on outlandish costumes and fashion implements with which to vanquish their enemies, or smaller siblings, and shriek up and down the hallway.

Jack is a little older than Weston, and we are often the grateful recipients of Jack's hand-me-downs. One of our recent acquisitions is a Transformer t-shirt in excellent condition. I had it stashed away, because as you may have guessed, I do not love Transformers. This morning I brought the t-shirt out in a desperate attempt to get Weston dressed in time for Ella and her mom to pick him up for the dreaded swimming lessons. It was magic, my friends: Transformers can get dressed by themselves! Transformers can jump so high! Transformers can run so fast! Daringly, I suggested that perhaps Transformers can even swim. 'Yes!' he declared, enthusiastically, and off he went to the pool.

Alas, upon his return, I learned that Transformers only want to get their feet wet, play in the kiddie pool and consume the semi-weekly swimming lesson Doritos bribe.