I turn in my car seat and look at Joe. He is six and a half now, and one furtive ‘big tooth’ is pushing up behind his first wobbly incisor. His hair is a mousy scruff and his eyes curious.
‘Well, do you think, ink, think, um, do you think…’
‘Yes Joe? [spit it out, boy!]’
I turn back in my seat.
‘I have to keep driving, Joe. What do I think?’
‘Joe, you were asking me a question, what do you want to know?’
‘Oh yes, I know. Mum, do you think, ink, um… what’s that thing again?’
‘Do you think I have that thing?’
‘What thing Joe?’
He turns to the window and starts doodling on the glass with his fingers.
‘Joe, are you listening?’
He clearly isn’t.
‘Er, mum, do you think I have that thing, ing, that thing?’
‘What thing, mister?’
‘That thing where you get really, um, distracted*?’
‘Well, that’s hard to say Joe. I didn’t use to think that… ‘
Hmm. So now I need to investigate whether his levels of distraction are beyond the typical for his age. When I can get around to it, I mean. It’s most likely genetic in any case probably.
*He cannot pronounce ‘distracted’ and most likely said ‘extracted’, for what it’s worth. Other Joeisms include sumbarines, dymanics, and his favourite grace: ‘Ear God, Thank You For Our Food And AMEN’.
I should think he’s well in the running to be president some day.