Sons are funny. They make you wonder sometimes. Our son is a random, phlegmatic, impenetrable, unpredictable mass of opacity. Why does he panic? I don’t know. I really don’t. In my understanding of his life, at least, it could be characterized like this: “He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it, holy cow. He noticed that?”

Which is why when he sauntered into the kitchen, looked at the steaks I was preparing, and asked, “Is that poop?” I wasn’t overly surprised. These misunderstandings will occur. And I patiently explained that it was steak. For dinner. Not poop.

Two minutes later I looked aghast at the small pile of kitty-poop next to which Michelle was playing, understanding for the first time what those plaintive meows of an hour ago had meant. “Lewis,” I gasped, seizing on the nearest bystander for interpretive help, “what is that?!”

And he had learned his lessons well. “It’s steak,” quoth Lewis.