🦖 A Mother’s Perspective on Rocks, Roars, and Absolutely No Goodbyes

Jack was three and very busy being a scientist.

He donned his favorite dinosaur shirt—well-worn, slightly stained by juice and pride—and clutched a backpack full of essentials. Inside: three semi-identifiable pebbles, one bent straw, a paper towel with something “research-y” on it, and sheer confidence.

He announced, “I’m going to the dinosaur park to study triceratops behavior.”
We nodded. Of course. He was the expert.

As soon as we arrived, he sprinted like a caffeinated paleontologist set loose. No map. No hesitation. Just rock-fueled ambition.

Within minutes, he’d discovered a dirt patch near a statue of a stegosaurus and declared it a nesting zone. He dropped to his knees and began gathering pebbles with reverence and intensity.

“These are eggs,” he said, holding one up. “This one might be a meat-eating kind, but it’s shy.”
We agreed. The shy carnivore pebble. Obviously.

Then came the Great Bug Spray Incident.

I approached gently, armed with the spray. Jack froze. Squinted at me like I’d betrayed his fieldwork.

“What is that?” he demanded.
“It’s bug spray.”
He whispered, “We don’t use chemicals around the eggs.”

There was negotiation. I tried logic. He countered with dramatic arm flailing and a monologue about “fossil safety protocols.” Eventually, we reached a compromise: I could spray near him—after the eggs were safely hidden in his sock. (He did this discreetly. One egg fell out. It was dramatic.)

Then—joy. He ran, he roared, he declared war on a life-sized T. rex sculpture by throwing mulch in its direction. He was laughing. Radiant. Covered in science and questionable dirt.

And then, the betrayal. The dreaded words:

“Time to go.”

Jack paused. Blinked. Turned slowly like a movie villain with an emotional arc.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not done yet.”

“But we’ve been here an hour.”

“I LIVE HERE NOW.”

He backed away toward the fossil pit like it was his fortress. Arms crossed. Lips pursed.
There was bargaining. Threats of “no bedtime stories.” Jack responded with passionate geological arguments and attempted to camouflage himself behind a bush.

Eventually, he agreed to leave—but only under these terms:

• He could bring at least four eggs home.
• We had to mark the location for “future excavations.”
• The dinosaur park staff had to promise not to move the statue while he was gone.

He waved goodbye like a prince banished from his land.
We drove home with a sock full of rocks and a boy quietly whispering to them in the backseat, “Don’t worry, we’ll come back soon.”

And just like that, the fossilized resistance ended. Until next weekend.