This morning, my boys were having a discussion about the relative importance of things.
Daryl, the puberty-entering near-twelve year old, was sitting at the dining room table, eating his cereal and milk. Hal, the learning-to-read-efficiently near-seven year old, was sitting in the living room, reading a book.
“Hal,” Daryl called out. “You need to come eat your breakfast.”
“So? You need to eat breakfast.”
“Reading is important.”
“Not as important as eating breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You need it to fuel your body for the rest of the day.”
“Well, reading is more important than eating!”
“No it’s not! You have to eat or you’ll die. You can read after you eat breakfast.”
When I related the conversation to my husband, Hal clarified his reasoning. Turning to his brother, he said, “Well, what if you ate poison, huh? If you ate poison, you’d die! And what if that poison had a sign on it that said ‘poison’? If you read it, then you wouldn’t die. But only if you can read!”
Who can refute such logic? Certainly not an older, thinks-he’s-so-wise brother.