There are appropriate topics of conversation over Cheerios; topics that involve a minimal amount of brain function, like our 3-year-old daughter’s usual “it’s morning time,” “is it a preschool day?” and “I like Scooby-Doo.”
I can usually answer those: “yes,” “yes,” and “doesn’t everybody?”
However, the Girl apparently hasn’t entirely embraced the area of acceptable early morning behavior like her 5-year-old brother. He grunts.
“Daddy,” she said, getting into thinking mode by resting her cheek in her hand. “What does ‘je ne sais quoi?’ mean?”
What? I was expecting, “don’t eat my breakfast. I gotta potty,” but “je ne sais quoi?” That’s like French, or something. Then, looking into her sweet little face that usually says things like, “can I watch Strawberry Shortcake?” “my brother hit me on purpose,” and “I’m a puppy,” I realized “je ne sais quoi” is not only like French, it is French.
“Je ne sais quoi?” I said to my wife who was much more awake and aware of the morning than me. I needed help. The thought of our little girl sneaking peeks at PBS behind our backs sent me into a panic.
“It means ‘that special something,’” she said.
“I know what it means,” I lied. “Where did she come up with that?”
I also left off, “and how can I explain ‘that special something’ to a 3-year-old?” Man, this was going to be harder than the time she asked why she and her brother looked different naked.
“A children’s book,” my wife said.
A children’s book? Children’s books are supposed to have words like “run,” then “Spot,” then “run” again. Books are supposed to teach children that furry, grinchy monsters can survive enlarged heart syndrome if only a group of beaten down villagers sing Christmas music. They’re also supposed to relay messages to our children like pokey puppies don’t get to finish breakfast, or play with their brothers, or have dessert. Why? Because they’re pokey. Come on puppy, get with it. That lost in the snow scene’s not going to set itself.
What is today’s juvenile literary world trying to do to innocent American children? Teach them a language only cherished by art majors?
What happened to books about big hat-wearing cats that tear the hell out of your house? Or kids who travel to far-away lands and conquer an entire continent of wild things? Or the little blonde girl’s “Porridgegate?” Now those books can teach our kids something valuable – learn a martial art; this world’s a really dangerous place.
