Along the same lines--that of mistaking the nuances of my Mother Tongue--I son mistook another turn of phrase for something serious.
It was the summer time, and--in my corner of the medical field--summer means a decline in the company population, in contrast to legitimate medical professions, where demand never stops. As such, I found myself on a Friday with a house only half full by eight o'clock. The clients had all gone home for the weekend, save for two.
In the home we have an unspoken etiquette: that we would rotate who got cut, so that there was no one person losing out on hours and money. And it was my turn to bite the bullet and go home early.
In a way, it was fortuitous. My son was out with my girlfriend, having a day together, and they would be returning home at nine--almost the perfect amount of time for me to drive home and surprise him.
My car pulled up just as he was walking into the backyard. As I walked up the drive, and my son heard my steps, he shouted, "Daddy, you're home early!"
He hugged me tightly. "Why are you home early?"
"I was cut early, Buddy!"
He pulled away, looking me up and down. "You got a booboo?"
Try explaining work schedules and the need to leave early due to population decline. It's much harder than explaining an analogy for the physical movement of "punching out."
But I did my best, and--for what it was worth--thought that my son had a solid grasp of what I had really meant. But my son is a smart lad with a long memory, and he held on to his confusion for days. It wasn't until I had wholly forgotten about out discussion when, as my son was showing me some of his more recent bruises and bumps, asked, "Is your booboo better, Daddy?"
"I don't have any, Buddy."
"The one that you got from work, Daddy."
I shook my head laughing, and so the vicious cycle began anew.
That's all from Elliott at the Kid's Table, eating Lemonheads and crackers.