So I'm sitting in the overflow chapel for Easter services. Evan and Abby are ungracefully with me, halfheartedly drawing on children's bulletins.

ABBY: Daddy: there's nothing to draw.

[Older couple in front of us smiles at her fondly]

ME: Why don't you draw the Easter Bunny?

ABBY: The Easter Bunny is creepy.

ME: Then why don't you draw the Easter Bunny menacing a village?

ABBY: [With an unsettling degree of enthusiasm]: Yeeaaahhhhhhhh.

[Older couple turns back towards the front, looking alarmed.]

Some minutes later, Abby has produced a drawing of a Godzilla-sized Easter Bunny credibly menacing a rustic village, with some visibly alarmed villagers.

ME: Oh, very nice, sweetie. Look at the villagers fleeing!

[Older couple is now staring ramrod-straight ahead not looking not looking not looking]

ABBY: I know, right?

ME: Look, Evan. Didn't she do a good job on the villagers?

EVAN: [newly turned 12, and suffused with ennui regarding each and every aspect of human existence] Eeeeuuurrrrggggghhhhhhh.

Happy Easter!

Part of the Conversations With Kids series.

Evan has viewed our pets with benign neglect; the girls give them all the attention. Recently, for the first time, he showed his first interest in getting a pet: a bearded dragon, which is basically a lizard with pretensions, a lizard that is currently working as a lizard but ultimately wants to direct.

Yesterday we picked up the bearded dragon, which we purchased off Craigslist. Normally you'd think that the only people searching "bearded dragon" on Craigslist are closeted Republican state senators, but actually no.

Anyway, we also picked up worms and crickets for the bearded dragon to it. It turns out that Evan — who has barely brought himself to touch Rex the bearded dragon — is afraid of the crickets.

This will make it easier to respond to his ridicule of my longstanding reptile phobia.

This conversation resulted:

Me: Just do it. Just march in there and pick out a cricket and give it to Rex.

Evan: No. I DON'T LIKE CRICKETS.

Me: It's a bug. It won't hurt you.

Evan: You don't know that.

Me: Are you afraid of the crickets? The little crickets in a jar?

Evan: Yes. Yes. I HATE CRICKETS.

Me: That explains why Pincochio was such a traumatic experience for you.

Evan: Who?

Me: Pinocchio . . . Pinocchio. You know. With Jimminy Cricket.

Evan: [Utterly unconvincingly] Oh . . . oh yeah. Him. Right.

Me: You have no idea who I am talking about.

Evan: Sure I do! Pino. . . somebody. And the cricket.

Me: I'm a failure as a parent.

Sense: This Picture Makes None.

Saturday, as usual, I took the kids for breakfast at our favorite diner, Rocky Cola Cafe in Montrose. Elaina wanted cereal; Evan and Abby ordered their standard — "Carly's Favorite", a barrow-sized mound of hash browns topped with bacon and cheese. It's implied, but not stated, that this breakfast item is a memorial, and that Carly has died of a massive myocardial infarction.

While we waited for our heaps of carbs, Evan entered his trance-like Nintendo DS state, and Abby and Elaina busied themselves playing with various toys they brought, including a My Little Pony and a Littlest Pet Shop stuffed with tiny plastic pets.

I was benevolently ignoring the kids, reading Fark on my iPad and drinking coffee, when the girls' dialogue began to get louder.

Abby [8]: . . . an' . . . an' . . . an' . . . these cats and dogs are all fighting, and the Little Pony has to convince them to be friends!

Elaina [4]: YEAH! [ed: to convey approximate volume of Elaina's indoor voice, imagine all of her dialogue is typed in 38-point boldfaced red font]

Abby: Little Pink Pony is going to tell them not to fight!

Elaina: YEAH!

Me: That's sweet. [ruffling Abby's hair fondly]

Abby: [making the freakishly outsized pony bounce up and down violently near the plastic cats and dogs] "Kitties and puppies! Don't fight! Don't go to war!

Elaina: WAR!

Abby: . . . .because if you go to war, so very many of your people are going to die!

Elaina: YEAH! DIEEEEEE! [smashing plastic cats and dogs in brief but entirely credible simulation of probable effects of war]

Me: Uh . . . .

Abby: They're going to die, all the puppies and kitties and turtles and fishies and birdies, and everyone is going to be so sad and go BOO HOO!

Elaina: SAD! WOO HOO!

Me: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Abby: [still stomping the pony up and down vigorously, now into the creamer dish]: So if you don't all want to die TODAY, and get BURIED in the GROUND, you have to be friends! Okay?

Elaina: OKAY!

Evan: Daddy, is Littlest Pet Shop supposed to be violent?

Last night I was driving Evan (10) and Abby (8) home from dinner.

EVAN: Daddy, quiz me on science stuff.

ME: Uh, okay. Here's one you didn't remember before. Who invented the light bulb?

EVAN: Uh — Einstein?

ABBY: Howie Houdini!

EVAN: I don't like that one. Ask another one.

ME: Okay. What is Einstein famous for?

EVAN: He talked about science and the universe and . . . and . . . what he said was important for knowing things in science, and the universe, and how science works in the universe, and stuff.

ME: You'll have to learn to bluff better than that, padwan.

ABBY: Ask another question!

ME: Okay. Who was the second president?

EVAN: GEORGE WASHINGTON!

ABBY: Howie Houdini! Harriet Tubman! SACAJAWEA!

ME: Bzzz. Wrong. Okay. If the president dies, who becomes president next?

EVAN: The vice-president!

ME: And if the president and the vice-president die, who becomes president next!

EVAN: Uh . . . the last president before that?

ABBY: SOME RANDOM GUY!

Evan: The last person who ran for president and lost?

ABBY: ME! HOWIE HOUDINI! A MONKEY SCRATCHING HIS ARMPITS!

ME: We may need to find you two a trade.

Evan, singing in the car: "Twinkle twinkle little star, Teletubbies rated R."

Me: "Why are the Teletubbies rated R now?"

Evan: "Because they have the VIOLENCE of LEARNING."

Me: "Good thing you're a pacifist then, huh?"

Evan: "I have no idea what that means, so EXACTLY."

The scene: as with so many such discussions, my car. Katrina is away at a party with the youngest. Tasked to take Evan (8) and Abby (6) to dinner, I have employed promises of shrimp and crab to persuade them to have their first Japanese meal.

Me: Okay. So Daddy will have some octopus. You guys can have shrimp tempura. And maybe some sushi. Maybe with some crab.

Abby: Daddy?

Me: Yes?

Abby: How do they kill the crab?

Me: Hand-to-hand combat.

Abby: Huh?

Evan. No. That's not how you kill a crab.

Me: OK. How do you?

Evan. You grab it by the leg. And then you smack it against the wall again and again. BANG BANG BANG.

Me: ….

Evan: Or you could go into a small, small room. Then you could hit the crab on one wall — BANG! — and then on the other wall — BANG! until it was dead.

Me: Okay. You have now officially creeped me the heck out.

Evan: [thrusting arms above his head] WOOOOOOO VICTORY!

Me: …

Abby: Daddy? Do you know how they kill an octopus?

Me: . . . . . no?

Abby: WITH A BAZOOKA! KAPOOOOOOSSHHSSHSHS!

Me: Okay, no more cartoons.

The scene: my car, taking Elaina (2 1/2) to preschool.

Me: [observing a driver ahead of me execute a boneheaded move]: Whiskey. Tango. FOXTROT.

Elaina: WHISKEY!

Me: . . . .

Elaina: WHISKEY!

Me: Uh . . .

Elaina: Daddy, why you say WHISKEY?

Me: Uh . . . let's sing. "I love you, you love me . . ."

[five minutes later, we walk into her preschool class]

Me: Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.

Teacher: Good morning, Elaina! Do you want something to eat?

Elaina: WHISKEY!

Teacher: . . .

Elaina: WHISKEY!

Teacher: Uh . . . .

Me: RISKY. She's trying to say risky. She's concerned that it's risky being so close to the fires.

Teacher: [melting] Oh, poor Elaina! Don't worry! You'll be okay! You don't have to worry!

Elaina: [Ever a drama queen, very adept at picking up tone, begins to pout her lip and quiver her chin]: Whiiisssskey. ::sniff::

Teacher: [heartbroken] Oh, sweetie! You're fine! You're fine!

Me: So, OK. I gotta go.

I'm wondering because iconoclasm and heresy abound in my SUV, and my efforts to steer it back towards orthodoxy only make things worse, as I've demonstrated before. The thing is, I'm not even sure if my church excommunicates. I suppose as a deacon I ought to know that, but I don't, which is really further evidence of the problem when you think about it. I'm at least relatively certain that I can't personally excommunicate anyone, and my desultory research into whether I am empowered to exorcise has been flat, stale, and unprofitable. But to get back to my original point, I think my SUV is some sort of cursed locus of heresy, because every now and then when I am driving the kids places they nail ninety-five theses of hot-place-bound blasphemy to my forehead. Like this Sunday:

Evan (8 years old): Daddy, I think Jesus was born 2009 years ago.

Abby (6 years old): Nuh-UH! You're making that up!

Me: Well, more or less. A little bit more, actually. More like — uh — 2014 years.

Evan: Wait, what? It's 2014? Oh NO!

Elaina (2 years old): 'ESUS!

Me: No. You're on the right track. We count the years from when Jesus was born. But the count is sort of off, because some monk fu . . . because some monk made a math mistake.

Abby: Like a chipmunk?

Evan: (offended) CHIPMUNKS. CAN'T. DO. MATH.

Elaina: HIPMUNK HIPMUNK HIPMUNK HIPMUNK. Where?

Me: No. Not a chipmunk. A monk, m-o-n-k. Someone who . . . uh . . . writes stuff down. He mixed up the dates.

Evan: Why didn't Jesus tell the monk that he got His birthday wrong?

Me: . . . I'm guessing . . . he didn't want to make him feel bad?

Evan: That's nice.

Me: Anyway, so Jesus was probably actually born in . . .

Evan: WAIT. Isn't Jesus God?

Me: Yeessss . . . .

Evan: But I thought God was God. If Jesus is God, who is God?

Me: Okay, see, that's complicated. Jesus is God's son, but Jesus is also . . .

Evan: . . . an' if Jesus was born 14 years ago, when was God born!

Abby: GOD wasn't BORNED! (rolling eyes)

Me: Right, God wasn't born, God was always . . .

Evan: But was Jesus born? Because Christmas is Jesus being born, right?

Me: (seeing the trap, unable to escape it) Right . . . .

Evan: So if Jesus is God . . . and Jesus was born . . .

Me: Okay, okay, okay, okay, I see where you're going with that. But Jesus is . . . uh . . . just one aspect of God.

[silence]

Abby: I thought that was a bad word.

Evan: Like BUTT!

Elaina: BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT BUTT

Me: [panicking]: WOW! LOOK! A doggy! Everyone LOOK AT THE DOGGY! HI, DOGGY! [waiving manically at woman walking dog down street, who looks alarmed]

The scene: a park, where I am watching Evan (now 8 ) play his first T-ball game of the season (one home run, two doubles, seven outs as first baseman) while Abby (now 5) and Elaina (now 2) play in the grass next to a wash.

Then suddenly:

ELAINA: FUCKS!

ME: . . .

ELAINA: FUCKS FUCKS!

ME: I beg your pardon.

ELAINA: FUCKS!

ME: Surely this is your mother's influence.

ABBY: She means ducks. We see ducks.

ME: Really?

ELAINA: DUCKS!

So we go see the ducks. The ducks, I note, quickly waddle away in the trickle of water across the wash when the girls approach the fence.

ME: (suspiciously) Were you being nice to the ducks?

ABBY: (indignant) Yes!

ELAINA: Yes!

ME: Really? You were being nice?

ABBY: Yes! We threw sticks at them!

A theological discussion, conducted in my car on the way to day care this morning.

Dramatis personae: Me, 39, Evan, 7, Abby, 5, Elaina, 2.

EVAN:    Daddy?

ME:   Yes, Evan?

EVAN:   How did Jesus get rid of the dinosaurs?

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The Scene: A car, on the way back from a party.

Evan (age 7): Daddy?

Me: Yes?

Evan: When Barack Obama is president, will he have butlers?

Me: Will he have what?

Evan: BUTLERS.

Abby (age 5): You know. BUTLERS.

Me: …

Evan: At the White House. Will he have butlers?

Me: Yes. There are butlers at the White House.

Evan: What will he do?

Me: Who? Obama?

Evan: No the butler.

Abby: BUTLERS.

Evan: Okay, the butlers.

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Me: What did you do in school today?

Evan: Subtraction.

Me: What's five minus three?

Evan: Two!

Me: Good. Now … what's two minus five?

Evan: Umm … minus three?

Me: Very good! Wow, I don't think I knew negative numbers in first grade.

Evan: They had negative numbers back then?

In a similar mode, not so long ago:

Me: Evan, when you are Bill's age [my cousin, starting grad school in his mid-twenties], I expect you to be supporting me.

Evan: Won't you be dead by then?

…than a seven-year-old being condescending to you as he kicks your ass at Mario Kart Wii?

"You're doing much better, Daddy."

"Daddy, maybe if you didn't steer into the wall so much….."

"Wow, Daddy, you came in 9th! That's better than 12th."

"I'm proud of you, Daddy. You're really improving."

"Don't worry, Daddy. You'll do better next time."

"You almost didn't drive off that cliff this time, Daddy."

Mockery is an essential element of child-rearing.

I learned this from my father in the late seventies and early eighties. "You left your dolls out," he's say. "DAAAAAD!" I'd yell. "Those aren't dolls. They are Star Wars ACTION FIGURES."

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A scene from this morning:

I kiss the wife goodbye as I leave for work.

Four-year-old: EEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWW!

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