My best friend Deirdre’s four-year old son Collin is precocious, adorable, inquisitive and all the other things you’d expect from a chatty pre-schooler.  He’s also a pain in my ass.  Not only do I have to watch my mouth, Collin will often call me on the carpet for various, off-the-cuff things I say.

For instance Collin said, “Michael, can I ask you something?”  And I responded, “Hit me.” He stopped cold and flatly barked, “We do NOT hit people in this house.”  (Nice to know his parents have stopped beating him.)  I tried to explain that “hit me” was simply an expression, but he was having no part of it.  At four years old, he takes everything literally.

Later, I was talking to Dre about my recent night out partying with The B-52’s.  I casually said, “Now that I’ve met The B’s, I can die.”  Of course, Collin overheard me and walked up, tugged on my pant leg and dramatically pleaded, “WHY do you want to DIE, Uncle Michael?”  Again, I tried to explain it was an expression.  He matter-of-factly said, “No one should have to die.  No one.”   I was totally busted.

The rest of the day I managed to save face.  I exchanged pleasantries with him and a box of Pepperidge Farm’s Mint Milano cookies.  We even went shopping at Target.  Deirdre shuffled us off to the toy aisle while she got her groceries and other sundry items.  I lasted about 10 minutes before I started to panic.  At the rate Collin was picking out things for me to buy him, I was going to be out about $22,000.

I guess the problem I have with kids is … well, their age.  I treat Collin like he’s forty-four instead of merely four.  I try to have in-depth conversations with him like I do with his parents.  Well, with his mom at least.  Collin’s dad is always up for heated political debates.

Frankly, I’d rather die.  (And, Collin, this time I mean it.)