I heard him in the hallway, wondering where I went. If Jedi has a question, I’m the person he seeks. I was idly drying off after a shower, however, so he had to settle for J. Why he decided to respect my privacy for once is beyond me.
“Ok, um, Daddy? What does ‘radioactive’ mean?”
He should have just referred to the Incredible Hulk right here and been done with it. I mean, he glows green! How much more radioactive can you get? Instead, J fumbled for a few seconds, trying to find his own definition that a 6 year old could understand. I guess he couldn’t think of one, because he replied, “Um… uh… radioactive waves.”
“What are radioactive waves?”
“Umm… hmm…. it’s like… like a nuclear bomb.”
Even from the bathroom, I could see the next challenge coming from a mile away. As Jedi asked, I mouthed the words with him in unison. “What’s a nuclear bomb?”
Being the parent of a young child is a constant pop quiz, teetering on the brink of my mediocre education. Some days you pass, some days you fail, and some days your head is clogged and you wish you could call in sick. For now, I hold a slipping grasp on the answer key. Stories of superheroes aren’t going to suffice forever, though, but I’ll gladly take it while I can.