As a four-year-old, I became enamored of a plastic sword I saw in the toy department of Harper's  Five-and-Dime, which looked almost exactly like the one shown below:

I begged my mother for it.  Sensing her misgivings about buying her son violent toys, I kept reassuring her, “It isn't sharp or anything.”  Eventually, she gave in and bought it for me, and I went on my merry way, slaying imaginary dragons and trolls.

Fast forward 35 years.  My eldest son, Daniel, will be four in two months.  Today, his friend came over to play, and brought a plastic sword (like the one above) he had just received as a birthday present.  They started playing, and my son became upset that he didn't have a sword of his own.  “I can't be a knight,” he said, on the verge of tears.

I stood up, squared my shoulders, and walked to the back room.  I opened a particular plastic storage tub, reached in, and laid my hands on what I needed.  I walked back into the room, knelt on one knee, and presented it to my son.  “Daniel, this is your father's sword he had when he was your age.”

Today was the day my eldest son took up his father's sword and embarked with his best friend on his first quest to slay a dragon.

(Later on, I was roped into playing the role of the dragon.  They say you either die a hero, or live long enough to become a villain.  Today I became a dragon, and I couldn't be happier.)

Postscript:  When I put my son to bed, he thanked me for sharing my sword with him.  Then he asked me, “Daddy, when you were my age, did you fight real dragons and trolls?”

“No,” I said.  “Even when I was a kid, real dragons and trolls were far away and difficult to find.”

“Daddy,” he asked, “Where are dragons and trolls?”

“That,”  I replied, “you'll have to discover for yourself.”  And I stepped out of his room and closed the door.