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The Really Tough Questions

Children are naturally inquisitive from birth, and once language skills develop to a certain point, they begin asking about everything under the sun. This is all very cute at first, but after the names of all the colors have been mastered, the line of questioning becomes a bit more complicated.

Young children are not emotionally equipped to grasp the existential absurdities and maddening contradictions of life that adults have learned to suppress in order to retain even a small degree of social functionality. As all parents know, efforts to explain deeper issues can raise more questions than they answer.

A precocious three-year-old, Emma has been on a fact-finding rampage. During a recent bank errand, she took a keen interest in the concept of money in general, and checks in particular. She wanted to look at one, so I obliged, and the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them: "Here, check it out."

She gave me The Look. I tried to rephrase it but the damage was done. She understood the idea of different kinds of money, but this word "check" was going to be trouble. When we go to the library to look at the books we are checking them out, right? But then when we make our selection, we go to the desk and, well, check them out. But we use a library card, rather than write a check. When we buy something with a check, we are not "checking it out" in the library sense. On the contrary. When I write a check for something, I want to keep it. Unless it's a rental.

We did not exactly achieve closure in this conversation. In the car, Emma took a few minutes to quietly wonder whether the whole world was completely idiotic, or just her father. Up in the front seat, racking my brain for a better way to explain the global banking system to a three-year-old, I was unprepared for her next question:

"How do people die?"

Oh boy. First money, now death. At least this should be easier to explain than the prime rate. I stalled, using the traditional technique:

"What do you mean, Sweetie?"

That was a hot one. I knew exactly what she meant. Fortunately, hers was a rhetorical question; apparently she wanted to show off her worldly knowledge. She explained that people get old and their hair turns gray, then white, and then they die. But dinosaurs didn't have any hair but they still died. She paused to let her point sink in.

I just nodded. I was glad to get off easy, and besides, I really didn't have much to add. She'd pretty much covered it.

Later that day, during our three trillionth viewing of "The Wizard of Oz," came the Question of the Day.

"How come they never go potty?"

Now we were getting into a really sensitive area. I hypothesized that perhaps they did it whenever we turned off the TV, in order to have some privacy. Or maybe it was originally shot but ended up on the cutting room floor ð the footage, that is. Someday they may release a Director's Cut and we can all find out.

Emma had a logical suggestion: Maybe they're all wearing diapers. If so, we decided, the Tin Woodman must be wearing diapers of tin. That means he would get rusty every time he ð you know. Hey! That must be how he rusted in the woods in the first place. Diaper rash for the metallurgy crowd. No wonder he was whimpering for his oil can.

For the first time all day, Emma seemed truly satisfied with the explanation.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.