Actually, I’ve been known to kill mice, rats, and any number of bugs. Don’t get me started on mosquitoes, either. But while I’m all for eating meat, I’m not big on killing them myself. It’s not that I wouldn’t, it’s just that my hobbies tend more towards books and music. I’m all about bacon, but being an American in 2009 means I do your taxes, you make my shoes, and someone else can take care of the pigs.

“I don’t kill things” was my response to E earlier after he asked whether a gun he was eying would be good for “big game,” whatever that means. E is an all-American Boy, with a capital B. Right now he is at basketball practice because football season ended. At other times he can be found playing lacrosse, and he’ll dabble in just about any other sport he comes across.

And part of E being an all-American Boy is obsessing over weapons, knives and guns especially. It’s easy to get caught up in the violence of it, but that would be wrong and unfair. After all, lots of people have guns and love to hunt. And I myself have – I kid you not – a briefcase of knives, although it’s nowhere near as impressive as my dad’s knife briefcase.

When I was E’s age, I loved to imagine I was at war. I drew scenes of violence on the front of my bulletin at church (but I didn’t fidget!). And I asked for weapons for Christmas every year. Does the jolly fat guy bring weapons on that happiest of days? Yes, Virginia, he does. Joy, love, peace, and a new knife that could get you suspended if you accidentally brought it to school.

So no, I don’t kill things. But I’m not going to be casting the first stone.

I could almost say I hate basketball, although I was always taught not to use that word.

I don’t know what it is about basketball that gets me so, and I know that few share my dislike of the beloved sport. Is it the relentless back and forth or the ridiculously high scores (they scored! they scored again! oh my goodness, they scored again!!)? I don’t know. I used to go to UT basketball games with my dad, but I almost always fell asleep. And we had a basketball goal when we were kids, but I thought it was more fun to play on roller blades. It’s true.

It took me years to admit out loud that I disliked basketball. After all, everyone likes basketball, right? And most people who like one major sport tend to at least sort of like the others. But not me. It’s no exaggeration to say that I’d rather go to the dentist than to go to a basketball game.

Why am I telling you this? Because E just made the basketball team, and I am struggling with how to handle it. For me, it is as if he made the competitive spitting team. I tend to find the attitude of basketball players to be unappealing, because there’s a shared pride that overflows, although that’s less the case when the kids aren’t big enough to dunk the ball. And I’ve already mentioned that I can hardly stay awake while watching the game. I’m certainly not seeing a basketball hoop at our house in our future, although there are a few balls floating around.

Clearly I have to be happy for E, and I am. I just wish it weren’t basketball.

E, who will be twelve not long after Christmas, is a boy. And he loves magnets. Unlike when I was a kid, when I had to rip apart old speakers to get cool magnets, now you can get ultra cool stuff like this:

Is that cool, or what?

Linky link to the store is here.

I just got this note from Katie:

BTW, this morning E told me that even though C is your “real” kid and he isn’t, he’s pretty sure you love him as much as you love C. I told him that he is right

Obviously, Katie gave the right response. I only wish E spent more time at our house rather than the schedule of alternating weeks necessity has created.

But E’s remark got me thinking in a different direction: there is an oddity in life that to E’s cousins, who have known me just as long as E has, I am “Uncle” Jon. But to E, I am just Jon. My nieces and nephews refer to me with more respect, if that is the right word, than the kids in my house. To my nieces and nephews, I have a title and a place. To H, J, and E, I am Jon.

It’s not that stepparenting is a new thing, either. I am sure it used to be quite common when life expectancies were much shorter. I am sure that everyone in Jane Austen’s day knew someone who had remarried after losing a spouse. Then there are those so-called step-dads who became “dad” at some point. But E already has a dad. And he certainly can’t call me “Step-Dad” instead of Jon, as in “Hey Step-Dad, can I watch some tv?”

I guess there’s no solution. There just isn’t a good term for what I am. I am more than Step-Dad and more than Jon.

I guess if I am lucky, and I do my job right, “Jon,” too, will mean more than “Jon.”