“Have we ever eaten here before, Daddy?” asked my newly-turned- 5-year-old daughter on what was our third trip to Habit Burger.
“Sure, we have, sweetheart—remember, the first time was with everybody, and then we went another time last week when mommy was having surgery. Your brother spilled his lemonade all over the table.”
“No, no, no—I mean, did we ever eat here BEFORE our first time?”
I adore this daughter’s moments of metaphysical perplexity. Of all our children, she is the one whose way of looking at the world most consistently delights—either because of the deep wonder in her questions, or because she sounds like she is repeating Steven Wright jokes, or both.
Last summer, for example, she was waxing lyrical to my mother about a deep passion of hers: popsicles. “I just love them so much,” she cooed, beside herself with cold, sweet delight. “I LOVE POPSICLES, GRANDMA!”
Traditional marriage
“Why don’t you marry one then,” replied grandma, who taught 5th grade for 27 years and thus can lay down the repartee like she’s at the court of Louis XVI.
“Grandma, you can’t marry a popsicle!”
“And why not?”
She had to think about that one. Would it have something to do with the natural law? One man, one woman?
“IT DOESN’T HAVE ANY ARMS!”
Her most arresting aphorisms seem to come when an adult is losing patience and is trying to abort an unwanted conversation. Last August, I was driving the family to an unfamiliar restaurant on a Saturday afternoon—it was so unfamiliar, I knew neither the name nor the address, and the conversation in the front seat about our uncertain destination got someone’s attention from the middle row. “Daddy, where is this restaurant that we are going to? What is it called? Do you know where it is, Daddy? What kind of food will it be? Do they have cheeseburgers, Dad? Is THAT the restaurant over there? Is it that one? IS THAT THE RESTAURANT, DADDY?”
Stressed out by the prospect of a voyage to nowhere, aggravated by the hammering of her questions, I vented a bit. “Sweetheart, the restaurant we are going to might not even exist.” An unwise response, for I offended what seemed to be her native ontological realism.
“Daddy—you can’t say THAT. Everything exists! Trees exist…birds exists…cars exist. Everything in the whole world exists, so restaurants exist, too!”
An interesting attempt at proof; I wondered what St Anselm would make of it. But then I did something reckless.
St Anselm of Canterbury (1033-1109)
“What about God—does he exist?”
“No, silly—you can’t SEE him!”
Drat—like many a philosophically precocious young person, this 4-year-old was flirting with atheism, and my reckless pedagogy had pushed her there. I quickly pivoted to attempt a save, lest I merit a millstone instead of lunch: “But what about Jesus?”
(John 14:21: Whoever sees me sees the Father.)
“Of course, Daddy—Jesus exists. We can see him hanging on the cross in church on Sunday.”
Whew. Grateful for her having come back from the abyss, I decided to save the Real Presence and an exposition of the words of Adoro te devote for another time. Faith was saved, and we found our restaurant.
Last spring, when my wife left town for a week to spend time with her ailing father, I had a long stand at home alone with my daughter’s relentless mind and incessant questioning. The two eldest were away at school all day, and the younger brother, at home with us, was still sub-conversational—it was just she and I, in an exhausting tête-à-tête that lasted from morning till afternoon. I lay prostrate on her anvil day after day, and the questions fell like blows.
“Dad, are there grocery stores on Jupiter?”
“Dad, when a lady dies in an opera, does she REALLY die, or is she just sleeping?”
“Dad, why is it OK to take a rosary to Mass, but not a stuffed penguin?”
“Dad, do fish have mommies and daddies?”
“Dad, why is my birthday ALWAYS in January?”
“Dad, do Latin words mean anything, or are they just nonsense? What about German? Is German nonsense?” (All depends on who’s writing the German, my dear.)
After one particularly grueling day, I had had it, and I attempted to pull the plug after she stopped waiting for the answers to be finished before launching into the next one, like an impatient ladies’ rosary circle starting Holy Mary, Mother of God before the end of blessed is the fruit of thy womb.
“Sweetheart, I want you to stop asking questions for a little bit. Maybe you could tell me some things, but let’s take a little break from questions for a while. No more questions, okay?”
Her brow contracted, and I watched the lights blink on her modem status indicator for a couple of seconds as she considered her response.
“Dad, what does—?” She broke off, shaking her head at herself, and uttering a grunt of frustration.
“Dad, why is—what—does—?” Her agitation rose.
“Dad, is—what—can we—AAAGH! If I can’t say any questions, Dad, I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY!”
“Well, then, maybe you could be quiet for a little bit. Take a rest from talking. Say nothing.”
At this suggestion, her expression changed completely. The furrowed brow relaxed; the storm clouds cleared; she relaxedly threw her head to one side, with blond locks bouncing as her face lit up with an incredulous grin, like it does when I deliberately jumble the order in the alphabet song.
“No, Daddy—I can’t do THAT!”
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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
My son turned six on Tuesday. After a day of letting him decide what to do (chocolate chip pancakes, ice skating, KFC for lunch, playground, sushi for dinner, movie). We were all exhausted. He was predictably wound up by the time I got him to bed.
“You know, buddy, when your brothers were six they went to bed at 7 o’clock.” He just smiled in his adorable way.
“Oh mom! That’s just ridiculous!”
Thanks for your stories. They are so sweet at this age arent they?
I so absolutely loved this article, as this is my daily life with my 7 year old son. When he falls asleep, the silence is deafening. Thank you for a wonderful read, and the anvil sentence – pure brilliance! LOL
Hahahaha hillarious