We had dinner out tonight, and as many restaurants do these days, they brought crayons and a coloring sheet for Biscuit.
We got to the table, and Biscuit glanced down into the cup.
"That's not red. That's not red, Mom. That's not red," he said. Red is his favorite color.
I glanced into the cup and assured him that there was a red crayon in there. "There's a red crayon in there, Biscuit," I said.
"No, Mom. That's pink. It's pink, Mom. Rosado. That's pink," Biscuit said, quite sure of himself. (Rosado is Spanish for pink.)
I dumped the crayons out onto the table. He was sort of right. It was red-violet. And the wrapper was pink.
"It's a shade of red," I said to Biscuit, trying to convince him that red-violet was close enough. I was sort of cringing because I just had a sinking feeling that "shade of red" wasn't going to be good enough.
I was right.
"I'm done. I'm done with the crayons. That's not red. I'm done," Biscuit said.
"Would you like a pencil instead?" I asked him.
"A pencil? For me?" Biscuit asked.
As I reached into my pocketbook, I realized that I said "pencil." I didn't have a pencil. I had a pen. Only now do I realize how silly it was for me to be tip-toeing around Biscuit, just hoping and praying he didn't have a meltdown. But I had sort of a lousy day at work, and quite frankly, I just didn't think I could handle a big screaming fit.
I handed Biscuit the pen, and he was so excited. He started drawing lines and squiggles. He seemed pretty pleased with the pen.
"This is a pencil, Mom?" Biscuit asked.
I didn't figure he knew the difference, so I said, "Yep. That's a pencil."
Biscuit held the pen up and looked at it from all angles. "Where the wed, Mom?"
"What?" I asked him.
"Where's the wed in the pencil?" He was asking where the pencil's lead was.
Who is teaching him this stuff?!?
"It's actually a pen. And instead of having lead, it has ink," I explained.
"I-i-i-ink?" Biscuit said, with his voice going up about 18 octaves.
"Yes," I said. "The ink makes it write."
I think I've let some of Biscuit's recent behavior affect how I treat him. He's a smart kid, and instead of trying to placate him, I need to answer his questions honestly and as thoroughly as the situation calls for.
In other words, little man doesn't pull any punches, and I better get my story straight!