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"How did you know?" my son Austen asked.

"Know what, buddy?" I asked.  We had been talking about how a particular connector fit into a particular slot.  This, along with batteries and speakers, is a particular fascination of Austen's lately.  When we were watching the movie Alvin and the Chipmunks on DVD recently, we had to pause the movie during the scene in which Dave presents a record executive with the Chipmunks on a set decorated with lighted model Christmas trees and wired to play the background music to their big hit, "Christmas Don't Be Late."

This scene was the source of much heated speculation.  Where had Dave put the speakers?  Could we see them?  What was powering it all?  Did Dave plug it in but we didn't see it?  If so, how many prongs did the plug have?  If not, what kind of batteries (Double A? Triple A? C? Nine volt?) were powering the lights and the music?  Were there wires leading from the batteries?  What kinds of plugs and connectors were on the wires?  The possibilities were nearly endless, and all tantalizingly out of sight.  Austen clearly had a vision for a superior, autistic version of the movie where the camera would have plunged right past the Chipmunks and into the tangled mass of wires behind the cotton ball snow and plastic fir trees.  And I've got to agree with him, that version probably would have been more interesting to me too.

But right now, I have no idea what he's talking about other than something I just said about something that is probably (but not definitely) wires.  This is a problem I often encounter with Austen: he pays much more attention to what I say than I do, especially when his sister is talking to me at the same time, and I'm trying to get a snack ready for one of them and my terrible monkey mind is jumping ahead to the thousand other things I need to get done before bed.  It leads me to end up in moments like this where I'm standing and staring blankly at my kids as if I just woke up to find I'd been sleep walking around the house all day.

"HOW!  How did you know?!"

"Hm," I search my mind and I'm pretty sure the last sentence I said was that I didn't think that plug fit in the slot he was trying. "How did I know that connector doesn't fit in that slot?" I venture, "Um, because that's a connector for an XBox, but the thing you were trying to connect it to was not an XBox and the slot looked different, so I didn't think it would fit."

"No!" he screamed, "How did you know?!"

Damn.  Now I'm screwed.  I don't know what I said.  "I don't know, Austen.  I really don't remember what I just said.  I thought we were talking about that connector?  Could you help me?"

"No.  Remember for yourself.  Now, how did you know?"

Ok, I can get out of this.  I know he's stuck on this point because he's hungry, so I decide to continue with the activity that made me forget what I was talking about in the first place: making him something to eat.  He follows me dutifully around the kitchen, barking out at regular intervals, "How did you know?  How did you know?  How did you know?"

I was reminded of one day in high school history class when a teacher called on me, I think because he sensed I wasn't paying attention.  Which I wasn't.  I heard my name, but not the question.  "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"Answer the question," he said.

"I can't answer it, because I didn't hear the question," I responded.

"Answer the question," he repeated.  We went back and forth like this, several more times, with me getting angrier and angrier until he called on someone else.  I was so relieved to hear the answer because then I could finally infer what the damn question was!  I wished I had someone else to pass this off to now.  Where was my husband when I needed him?

"Can we call Daddy and ask him how I know things?" I asked.

"No," said Austen, "How did you know?"

Ok, fair enough.  I was, admittedly, trying to cheese my way out there, but it was still worth a shot.

So, I try (unsuccessfully) focusing on the task at hand.  I try repeating my answer and then not answering at all.  Then I hazard a few more guesses.  I try some vague but plausible answers.  I try telling him I have magic, psychic powers that allow me to know everything.  I even try total kid gross-out silliness by telling him the way that I know is "because of big, drippy, gooey, snotty, yellow and green boogers."  That makes him laugh.  A lot.  But when he finishes laughing, he goes back to "How did you know?" adding the frustrated command, "And tell the truth!"  Boogers, however entertaining, clearly were not the truth.

But the truth is that I already told him the truth: I don't know and I need more information.  What he wants isn't the truth, it's the right answer, his right answer.  And as I hear him droning, over and over, "How did you know? How did you know?  How did you know?" I find that I desperately want to be able to give him the answer he wants to hear, so that we can all move on.  And I think, "Ah, this is how people end up with false confessions from torture, because they just want to find the answer that makes it end."

After he eats, Austen begins to calm down and asks, "How did you know that connector wasn't going to fit in that slot?"  Finally!  And damn it, that was the very first thing I tried and he told me that was not it!  "Well, I know that's a connector for an XBox because it says so on the package, but the thing you were trying to connect it to was not an XBox and the slot looked different, so I didn't think it would fit."

"Oh, ok," said Austen, and went off to examine some other wires.

So, it turns out that sometimes it's not having the true answer or the right answer that counts; it's having it at the right time.  And the right time for us is almost always after Austen eats.  (Note to self: if you're ever held for questioning, try offering the officers a snack, then give them the answer they want.)