Heaven help us, there's no off switch!

Have you ever tried to talk to a seven year old? Or maybe I should rephrase that. Have you ever listened to a seven year old? It’s a bit like a cross between an insane asylum and an action film.

If my son is, in some way restrained, such as in the car’s booster seat, or stuck in a waiting area with me, it’s like someone pushed a button and then ripped out the off switch. Except for those brief hours when he is sleeping, and I do mean brief as he’s always been the one who could go to bed late and rise early, I don’t think he has paused to take a breath in at least 6 years.

And yet, it’s not even the talking at such length that gets tiresome. I would love to have a conversation with him. But as it is, within the first eight minutes, I get the panicked feeling that squawking boxes have been strapped to my ears, playing the dialogue from Alice in Wonderland on one side and Gulliver’s Travels on the other, both of which I believe must have been written by someone on an acid trip.

I’m sure it all makes perfect sense to him. However, keeping in mind that I am usually trying to responsibly operate a very heavy moving vehicle, fill out some sort of paperwork by which I will later be judged competent, or concentrate on the amount of money I’m being charged for some service, it’s rather like trying to translate an alien language while performing mathematic or physics experiments.

I could not begin to tell you the information he has supposedly fed to me over the past 6 or so years since he began to talk, but I’m quite sure one of last week’s conversations went something like this:

“So the penguin wanted to ride on the bus, and Mrs. Riker read that part and Jordan laughed and the cyclops shot down the ship with a laser beam. The soldiers got up and marched to the landfill where the tomatoes were growing, and the lightning bolt knocked the giraffe into outer space. Then the Jedi got the light sabers and it was lunch time so we had to go down the tunnel to the penguin’s hideout, only these aliens were there and the Transformers were stomping on the snakes. But Indiana Jones couldn’t help because he’s afraid of snakes, so Wolverine put out his claws and Force pushed the Joker right out of Gotham City. Then we all sat down and had tea with the cheshire cat....” Or at least, that’s what I heard.

I’m quite certain that the part about translating a language that is not yet in existence, is in the VERY fine print of this mothering contract we supposedly signed, but nobody can ever quite produce as proof.

And yet, as much as the nonsensical chatter makes you feel a bit like putting on a straight jacket yourself and just begging for a padded room, there are moments when you’d actually prefer it to the alternative.

For you see, when my son is not restrained, it’s a whole different kind of panic that takes over. The sudden need to strap on a helmet and shin guards, and spin the toddler around in bubble wrap a few times, consumes my every thought as I simply try to move out of the way!

The mere theatrics of these conversations, I mean - monologues, are enough to have me using a cookie sheet as a shield while I secretly scan the silverware drawer for the largest spoon with which to start digging a bomb shelter.

This child is like Jackie Chan, a football running back, and a medieval swordsman riding atop a volcanic eruption. There are arms flailing and legs kicking. His head shakes around like a bobble head hanging by one coil of the spring, and his body flops to the ground with the force of a gorilla having a seizure. But then, he’s back up again, turning in circles like some sort of human funnel cloud, swinging his arms like Babe Ruth in his famous called homer, and marching around the dining room table like a pack of battery operated soldiers on rocket fuel. Without warning, he will spread his arms and fall backward as though he expects a mattress to magically materialize, but instead makes an indentation in the wood floor that we will have to explain to some future prospective buyers of this house.

It is in these moments that I wonder how much energy must be charging through his arms and legs when he is restrained. It’s no wonder that it all comes pouring out his mouth, in some sort of second grade meets Steven Spielberg and George Lucas on espressos and Halloween candy, think tank.

If I ever am fully able to piece together just what he’s talking about, I firmly believe there should be a Nobel peace prize involved, or at the very least a merit badge for endurance or successful survival in a dangerous environment.

In the meantime, I’m going to start saving up for a teenage cell phone plan with a LOT of minutes, and praying for his future wife.