“Can you pick me up two cans of creamed corn on your way home?”

My son met this question with his trademark evasive blank stare, a stare all three of my boys have perfected, and one they use when they want to get out of doing something. It indicates the following:

What part of this can I pretend to not understand? The ‘pick up’ part? The ‘creamed corn’ part? Or the ‘on the way home’ part?”

He went with the “creamed corn” part.

“Creamed corn? What the hell is creamed corn?” His face registered revulsion, as if I had asked him to pick me up creamed innards.

I sighed. “It’s corn, smushed, you know, with cream in it.”

He continued to make that face. It’s the same face he makes when pulls open the fridge and the smell of hard-boiled eggs hits him. And it’s the same face that all of my boys use when they have to plunge the toilet, do yard work, or deal with summer trash can juice.

“Smushed corn with cream? What do you need that for?” Still with the face.

“Well, I want to make corn chowder, and this particular recipe calls for creamed corn. Does it matter what I need it for? I just need it. Can you run into the store for me on your way home or not?”

He considered his response, and furrowed his brow.

“I guess, but I mean, where would one find creamed corn if one were to look in the supermarket?”

I matched his circular logic. “One would find it in the canned vegetable section.”

He nodded sagely.

“I see. But it calls to mind a certain question- why don’t you just cream your own corn?”

Boys do this, you see. They lead you on a path of linguistical and syntactical nonsense until you forget what it was you even asked them. I knew that by the time I had not only explained to him but also justified the errand, I could plant a corn field in my front yard, and harvest corn myself.

But I was determined to win this one.

“Cream my own corn? Why would I cream my own corn when others will cream it for me?”

He considered that.

“Good question. Why don’t you just use canned corn, and smush it here?”

“I don’t have canned corn here. I don’t have any corn. If I had corn, even frozen corn, I wouldn’t ask you to stop for me.”

“Yes,” he said, grabbing his keys and his wallet. “I see your dilemma.”

I watched him. “So are you getting it for me or not?”

He smiled generously. “Sure, I’d be happy to, but I’m not coming home until late. I mean, can you wait to make your soup until 2 a.m.?”

He won.

“No, never mind then. I’ll go out and get it myself.”

He brightened. “Yeah, sorry Mom, you know I would have been happy to do it.”

Yeah, right.