My 3-year-old son Cal has a great big love for The Three Little Pigs, the houses—straw, wood, brick, but most important to him, the star of the show, the Big Bad Wolf. For Halloween, my husband, son, and I dressed up as the pigs so Cal could be the Wolf. Our favorite version to watch is Silly Symphony‘s The Three Little Pigs. Sometimes, I sing the song for Cal during our evening walks. Cal rides his balance bike, traversing the ice and slush on the sidewalks while I walk along. I absent-mindedly sang “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” tonight because I saw it was Virginia Woolf’s birthday on FB. 

There was that pause, a slip of silence that one only remembers after a life-changing event. It was as if Cal had channeled the moment when playwright Edward Albee mixed allusion with symbolism to write Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. I foolishly believed I could take back the moment before his mind was blown. Our world seemed to stutter.

One breath later, and then Bam and Ba-ba-ba-Bam-Bam with rapid-fire questions:

“There’s a Gina Woolf??????”

“Where ‘Gina Woolf”

“Sam gonna be REALLY MAD?”

“Gina Woolf a girl?”

“WHAT ‘Gina Woolf look like?”

“I see ‘Gina Woolf?”

‘Gina Woolf’s inclusion in the Bloomsbury Group or Mike Nichol’s movie Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton has never rocked the literary landscape of one boy’s mind like Cal’s was that night.

Of course, later, when we got home, we had to tell Dave (my husband) and my mom. They had questions about how the play’s title relates to the author and whether The Big Bad Wolf had anything to do with Virginia Woolf. Yada-yada-yada.

‘Gina Woolf left her house and drowned in the river Ouse.

Ssshhhh. Don’t tell Cal.