Questionable Behavior

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Bill isn’t as patient as I am, I’m afraid. The other night, the three of us were sitting in the family room, watching a Yankee-Red Sox game on TV.

“Why do they spell it ‘s-o-x’?” he wondered aloud.

He and his father are big Yankee fans, but lately, he’s been less interested in the game and more interested in saying stuff like that. Before either of us could respond, he continued. “When they first made pinstripes, which came first, the pins or the stripes?”      

It went on like that. Finally, in the seventh inning, when A-Rod hit one out and Toby’s reaction to it was, “Why do they call it a home run when it’s the only hit you can get where you don’t have to run?” that was it for Bill.

“Listen, pal,” he warned, leaning across the couch at him, “whatever it is you’re trying to pull, it’s not gonna work, you hear me? You either cut out this crap right now, or you’re going straight to your room.”

I could tell Toby was trying. He made it to the end of the inning, and then he blurted, “If there are three outs in an inning, why isn’t it an outing?” Then he jumped up off the couch and ran out of the room. We could hear his footsteps pounding up the stairs and the sound of his door slamming shut. It just about broke my heart.

We tried a child psychologist that a friend recommended (not the one who said we should write to you, a different one). Bill and I liked her credentials, and we thought her rapport with Toby was terrific. When she spoke with us privately, she asked us how Toby had behaved when he was little, during that phase when kids always want to know “why this?” and “why everything else?” Bill and I couldn’t remember a single time when he did it. I wonder about that. Anyway, as it turned out, the psychologist couldn’t do a thing with him.

We learned some of the specifics because Toby had given his permission for her to tell us. I guess it’s standard procedure for a therapist to ask the child if it’s okay to share information with his parents. Toby’s response was, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

At the first session, she gave him some crayons of varying colors. Each color supposedly represented an emotion, like red for angry, yellow for happy, blue for sad, etc. When she asked him what emotion each color reminded him of, he answered, “Curiosity.” For all of them.

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, for instance…” he held up a red crayon, “why are fire engines the same color as stoplights? They’re allowed to go through them, so why aren’t they green?” Then he picked up a yellow crayon. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg yolk?” A blue one. “How many feet do you have to go up before you’re in the sky?” And an orange one. “How can there not be a word that rhymes with this?”

She invited him to draw whatever he liked. You can probably guess what he drew. Question mark after question mark, dozens and dozens of them, interlinked and snaking their way across the paper, covered with indiscriminate scribbles of color.

She asked him how he felt about school, his friends, his parents, life in general. He just shrugged. She asked him if he knew why he was acting this way.

He paused to think about it. “If I knew,” he said, “how would I know it?”

Ten sessions later, nothing had changed.

Physically, he’s just fine. His brain has been MRIed, CAT scanned, x-rayed, and pored over by neurologists. As far as they can tell, he’s a perfectly normal eleven-year-old boy.

Please help us, Addie. For Toby’s sake and our own sanity. At this point, you’re our only hope!

Sincerely,

Running Out Of Answers

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Dear Running,

It sounds like Toby is either going through a delayed version of the toddler’s inquisitive phase, or early adolescent rebellion. If it’s the first, it should be over fairly soon. If it’s the second, I’m afraid you and your husband are in for several years of dealing with this problem.

If there’s any consolation, remember that you’re not rejecting him just because you don’t answer him. You’re not obliged to respond to his every question.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, and I wish all the best for you and your family. Your letter was very touching and I sympathize. I, too, have to field ridiculous questions every day. You just have to hang in there.

By the way, does the friend who suggested that you write to me think I’m a person?

Addie

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