I was soaking in the tub today, reading a new book (Wally Lamb’s Couldn’t Keep It To Myself: Testimonies from Our Imprisoned Sisters), when Little Man came barging in.
“Mommy, look at all of these fossils I dug up!” he said excitedly, showing me a handful of rocks while I tried to cover up.
“That’s great!” I said, noticing that when he said “dug up” he meant with his hands. “What else did you find?”
“Nothing yet, but I’ll probably find God knows what soon.”
“You’ll find what?”
He gives me a look. “I’ll probably find God knows what,” he said and turned around and walked out.
I racked my brain. Religious experience, maybe? That didn’t sound right. And then a light turned on.
Get out from under that porch. There are snakes and God knows what under there.
Don’t dig in that trash can. There might be broken glass and God knows what in there.
Don’t eat that off the floor. It’s dirty and you’ll catch God knows what.
There we go. He thinks “God knows what” (or maybe “godknowswhat,” one word in his mind) is actually a thing. I’m gonna have to fish around later and see how, exactly, he’s going to know what “God knows what” looks like when he sees it.