If my conversations with my son were a movie, my character would be the girl in the horror film that decides to walk backwards directly into the crazy guy with the axe.
"Who do you think is going to pick that up?" I asked. He paused to reflect on what I thought was a near-rhetorical question and then replied, "The garbage men." I got comfortable. I really wanted to hear how this was going to play out.
I then asked, "Have you ever seen the garbage men in our house picking up our garbage?", thinking I was questioning him into a corner where he'd obviously have to admit that he was going to have to pick up that piece of tape. Rookie mistake.
"Well, the garbage men come when we're sleeping," was his quick response.
"So, the garbage men are like Santa?"
He responded, "They are like secret agents, but with trash. They don't have guns or bombs. Just garbage trucks." He went on to give examples of the garbage men's exploits in refuse, getting more and more animated with the more details he added. I start envisioning having to wade through trash-covered floors in the house, having been unable to disprove the existence of magical, invisible, garbage-collecting men. I try a different approach.
"Haven't you seen Mommy sweeping and vacuuming the floors before?"
"Yes, but that's because the garbage men only come once a week. On Saturday nights."
"Well, we're in luck. Tonight is Saturday night. When we wake up, we'll look and see if the garbage men came and picked up the floor."
Sunday morning came and my victory was so close, I could taste it. "Connor, is the trash picked up off of the floor this morning?"
He paused, smacked himself on the forehead, and exclaimed, "I forgot! Garbage men night is Thursday night!"
And the theater of people watching our conversation horror flick would be yelling, "WE TOLD HER NOT TO GO DOWN THERE!"
