What What?
When my six year old boy asks, “Da-a-a-d?” I answer “Yes?” wondering whether what follows will be a question about bodily functions or how much gun powder you’d need to blow up the garage. I do love these questions, though. I mean my boss won’t let me come in to work seven days a week anyway.
“Which would be worse, Dad?” Already the parental smile has begun to droop a little. “Accidentally setting the drapes in my room on fire and not telling you right away, or erasing some stuff on your computer that you said never to touch because you needed it for work and if you can’t work then we won’t have enough money to eat and you don’t want to be hungry all the time, do you?”
As I look at my little angel I go into the parental survival zone. First things first. Do I smell any smoke? No. Good sign. Although since we’re in line at the grocery store I’m not entirely sure the local volunteer fire department isn’t at this moment hosing down my computer with one hundred gallons per minute of H2O. The manual said to keep it in a reasonably dry place. I wonder if this qualifies. My second impulse is to dig a little deeper. And I miss the opportunity to get a quick answer by saying something stupid like,
“Are these hypothetical questions, son?”
I now have two saucers the size of quarters staring up at me with an expression that could be something as simple as, “I’m sorry I burned down the house,” to more complex like, “I didn’t say anything about a hippopotamus, Dad!” OK. Take a breath. It just came to me. The perfect response:
“Why do you ask, son?”
There. Mature, not shaming, not loaded. Just pure and simple. What I really want to say might land me over at social services if anyone heard me anyway. I’ll even ask it again. “Son?”
“Yes, dad?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Ask what?”
Oh lord, save me.
“Why do you ask about which would be worse?”
“What?”
Teeth now beginning to clench. First signs of perspiration beginning to show.
“ARE THE DRAPES IN YOUR ROOM REALLY ON FIRE?”
“In my room?”
“YES, IN YOUR ROOM!”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“What?”
“WHAT WHAT?!!!!!”
Then it occurs to me that I have violated some basic rule of grammar by using a double “what.” And now I’ve also frightened the poor guy so much that he’d flunk the polygraph even if he were innocent. OK, dad. Calm down. Call home on the cell phone. Thank you, lord. Mom says no fire department. Now, son. About the computer. Did you erase something on my computer?
“No, dad. You said that would be a bad thing.”
Good.
“Why’d you ask me those questions about the fire and the computer?”
Now the saucers are back looking more innocent than Mother Teresa.
“I just wanted to know which would be worse, that’s all.”
“Oh,” I say, now feeling about two inches tall.
“Well, I don’t think either one is very good, but I’m glad you’re thinking about not doing either one.”
Long pause.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Which would be worse? Having your zipper open on your pants or not having any pants on?”
Immediate finger check reveals source of question.
“Son, why don’t we go home and have some ice cream?”
“Good idea, dad.”
“What kind should we get?”
Pause.
“Son?”
“What, dad?”
“What kind should we get?”
“What kind of what?”