I hate circular conversations, they are the worst. Nothing feels more like a complete waste of time than asking the same questions back and forth and getting nowhere.
Circular conversations are the verbal definition of madness: trying to do the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“I don’t mind, anything really. Whatever. Honestly I don’t mind, you choose.”
“Ok, let’s get Indian.”
“No I’m not in the mood for Indian.”
“Then what are you in the mood for.”
“I told you, anything at all.”
Scene fades to black as a single gunshot echoes out in the night.
I can’t remember how long we’ve been here, but I know it feels like forever. The interrogation started like they always do: with a question.
“What do you want?”
“We’re not going to the shop, we just got back from the shop.”
The drama in this last part is almost a physical thing. Head thrown back, mouth opened at a strange angle that only sword swallowers can manage in later life. All it does, really, is reset the conversation.
“I said no, we’re not going to the shop.”
There is a line about never arguging with a fool, because people outside the conversation may not be able to tell which is which. The same applies to having these types of arguements with a pre-two year old. Using my language skills against those of Jellybean are always going to end in disaster. We speak the same languge, just wildly different dialects.
“I don’t get what you want. Are you hungry?”
“Do you want me to play?”
“Do you want to play football? We play some football?”
“Do you know what you actually want or are you just defaulting to no?”
We’ve entered circular conversation mode now. I can feel the small atoms of my remaining sanity disappear into the void. He clearly wants something. He knows that I can get it to him. But neither of us is speaking the same lingo so we are at an impasse.
“You’re not hungry, you don’t want fruit or a cracker?”
He smiles, that devilish little grin he has that I know will cause us trouble in the teenage years. It is a smile that immediately disarms and most of the time gets what he wants. Cuteness on steroids.
“You want a drink?”
“We’re not going to the bloody shop.”
“Uncle Mark isn’t here. Do you want juice?”
“No, daddy. No juice.”
I think I have just about grasped the thing he wants. A drink, maybe. He got very excited when I said drink, but I’ll be damned if he is getting into the habit of asking for a drink that requires a trip to the shop. You do that once and they remember forever more. It ain’t happening. Not on my watch.
Picking up a nearby kid cup, I hold it out in front of him.
That smile again. He is happy that the language barrier between our two peoples has broken down slightly.
“Shop!” he says, nodding.
“No shop!” I’m slightly stern with my tone. I need to nip this shop shit in the bud.
“Daddy!” he moans.
Both kids call dilutant ‘juice’ but consider orange juice to be something else entirely.
This is his stern tone now. It sounds like a leprechaun on laughing gas, but at least he tries to be intimidating.
I’m reminded of all the scenes from Indiana Jones were the Nazi’s are asking him questions. They peel off a glove and give him a slap to the face, then repeat the question. Only for child protection services said you’re not allowed to do that sort of thing any more I’d be off looking for my gloves.
“Right,” I said, exasperated and still holding the cup. “You want a drink, right?”
“Shop. Mark, please.”
I’m about to abandon all hope, when the lady friend walks in.
“He wants a drink of milk,” she says, passing through the kitchen like a train of logic en route to different lands.
“What? He never even said anything that sounds like milk.”
“Mark, he uses Mark for milk.”
“Well how the hell was I supposed to know that? Kids need to come with phrase books, each one is different. Is that it, you want a drink of milk?”
He smiles and claps his hands together. The caveman has finally understood.
“We’re not going to the bloody shop.”
“Shop means yes,” herself shouts in from the living room.
I feel my shoulders sag, defeated by a language barrier of my own creation. Since fifty percent of this cute demon child is me, so he had to get the skills to understand from somewhere.
“One milk, coming up.”
“Thank you, daddy,” he says, taking the cup of milk from me and running away delighted with life.
I update my mental Rosetta Stone for future conversations and continue cleaning the kitchen.