Man Talk

Upon asking a small child three times to repeat himself it is simply your job as the adult to figure it out. Zephyrous was over for a playdate with Dash and had emerged from happy occupation in the playroom to seek me out and ask me a question. Zeph is an abstract/utilitarian boy born of delightfully abstract/utilitarian parents (his father, Calico, currently sports purple hair, both parents are in the 'artistically employed' sub-group, and their home is a wonderful playground of creative semi-squalor that makes me want to go crazy with a ball of twine and a glue-gun and model a Tessaract on the spot), overall the kind of people who are a delight to me and sure to figure strongly in Dash's future friend choices.

So I figure I'm having a Moment of Importance as my eyes glaze and I feverishly review the string of syllables Zeph has thrice repeated, desperately decoding for english phenomes. Zeph, with his blonde hair, big eyes and highwater jeans with the knees completely ripped out revealing some equally tattered red jammy pants underneath, simply stares at me in my mute bafflement, sure that I am simply being an abstract parent who does not always respond directly to clear inputs. I know from observation that Zeph's speech often requires de-coding, not just to understand the words, but to unearth the meaning and intent behind it. I fear that if I find him completely incomprehensible in this moment it will be a significant step on the path of his deciding that 'other people' are just no fun to talk to because they 'just don't get me.' I see a lifetime of unexpressed thoughts stretching out before him.

Unfortunately, I am still at a complete loss as to what on earth he may have just said, so I fall back on the in-utterably lame but statistically probable guesses of "Are you hungry? Do you need to go to the bathroom?" I have a fraction of a second to note that my responses, while obviously completely wrong, are so far off from his train of thought that he has barely understood me in return and his face has therefore not fallen into that sad depressive state of self-acknowledged outsidership I feared, before Dash saves the day by clearly shouting from the other room, "He wants you to open the Treasure Chest!"

This brings a happy conclusion to the event as it gives birth to a manly display of hand-strength and 'technology' usage on my part to open the plastic Treasure Chest and give access to the desired pirate crew within. I emerge as a useful Dad, and the playdate continues on without psychological damage. As men we have both failed and triumphed as communicators and can only be glad that there were no women around to make fun of us.