I am somewhat accustomed to people taking my questions seriously in general, of course — I am, after all, a teacher post-Socrates — but with my son the context is entirely different. I’m not questioning him about the history of the fourteenth century or what Iago is up to in Othello; more often than not I’m asking him about the basic workings of the world, the sorts of things you and I take for granted.

And because he is untrammeled by the world, because he takes these sometimes joking questions seriously, in a way that you or I never would, I am constantly humbled and forced to step back and look at the world through his fresh eyes.

About 15 minutes ago, for example, we were eating lunch. I was re-reading a medieval outlaw tale that I’ll be teaching in, oh, about 45 minutes. My son was eating a hot dog. The wife was tossing the infant equivalent of all-natural Cheetohs at our daughter, who was happily grabbing them and crunching them apart with her 6 teeth. The wee lad, finishing his hot dog, asked for more “things” to eat.

I didn’t look up from my book. “What things?”

“Things like sister. I’ll take and bite them with my teeth,” he said, chomping the air dramatically.

“Why won’t you bite them with your nose?” I asked.

He didn’t respond right away, and the quiet pause was enough to make me glance up from my reading. The boy, I saw, was sort of looking off into the space over my shoulder. His mouth was open, and a couple of his fingers were tracing the line of his incisors. Then, as I watched, those same fingers moved upward toward his nostrils and felt around a bit. The fingers fell away after a moment, and his eyes returned to mine. With all earnestness, in the serious tone best reserved for conclusions wrought of true scientific inquiry, he looked into my eyes and said, “Because my nose doesn’t have teeth, Daddy.”

I laughed. I closed my book. He got some baby Cheetohs. And my son, no doubt uncertain why his discovery caused such amusement but pleased to have been a part of it nonetheless, laughed, too.

In honor of that, here’s a link to a nice summary of some of the currently leading candidates for a “Theory of Everything.” Love it.

I have no idea what it’ll be at this point, frankly. And I have to admit that the blank canvas is rather thrilling!

First off, there’s the teaching load. Papers have been coming in for each of my classes, and having two new courses to teach this term that require “from scratch” preparation — my Tolkien lecture class and Medieval Outlaws — is sucking up a lot of otherwise free time. Oh, and I also have a couple of big mid-terms to write.

Second, there’s The Shako, the literary magazine of The Citadel. It’s a lot of fun to run, and through much of the year it’s a piece of cake. But for about a month of the year it’s intense work. This is especially true in the week or so leading up to the submission of the journal to the printer. That’s this week.

Third, there’s my annual review. Every year the department meets to determine whether I’ll be able to continue my employment here at The Citadel. (In a few years, after I hopefully get tenure, they’ll meet to pass judgment on my performance, but it won’t be quite the job threat that it is now.) For this meeting I have to put together a Personal Data Sheet (PDS), which is really a multi-page, single-spaced narrative of what I’ve done this year along with all the supporting documentation thereof: tests, graded papers, publications, work in progress, student evaluations, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Fourth, there’s the Brunanburh book I’m putting together. It’s in the last gasps as we heave toward the finish line, legs and lungs are burning. That’s good news, of course, but it also means lots of last-minute, must-act-now items.

Fifth, there’s the family that one doesn’t dare lose track of in the tumult. As busy as I am, time must be found to run around with the kids. Or, as I did this morning, to walk the boy to preschool.

Sixth, there’s the 10 minutes I set aside to write this summary. Actually pushing 13 minutes now, which means I need to take my leave.