What is the Point?

My son wants to bring a Pokemon toy to camp. I know this because he is holding it in his hand shortly after we leave the apartment, and he shows it to me while we are waiting for the elevator. The Pokemon is a blue, whale-type fish, Kyogre. I know from previous in-depth discussions that Kyogre is very powerful.

I am filled with panic, writ small. Of course what I fear most is that he will lose it, someone will steal it, Kyogre will come to life and wreak havoc on the camp and New York City. But I don't cop to that. I blame The Man.

"I'm pretty sure that you are not allowed to bring toys from home," I tell him, my brow furrowed in Emmy-winning sympathy.

"Oh yeah?" he says. "Then how come I was allowed to bring the Wii remote control key chain to camp yesterday?"

Well, the main reason is that yesterday I didn't have the energy to argue about it, of course, but what kind of mother admits to THAT?

"You have a point," I concede.

"Where?" he asks.

"What?" I say.

Can a remake of "Abbott and Costello" be far behind?

"Where is my point?" He touches the top of his head and I remember that I used to style his hair with an Alfalfa style point for entertainment value. (Side note: It's a good thing that my husband does not read this blog, because sentences containing the words "son" and "style" and "hair" are subject to eyerolling. )

I tell him that I mean that he has a point, like what he said made sense, he, once again, ran circles around me logically. He laughs. He gets it. By this time we're in the elevator with Kyogre. Camp-bound.