I remember that when D was small and I was pretty much his constant companion, I felt that much of my work could be categorized as "interpretation." I was his go-between, the one who was slowly but surely figuring out the difference between an "I'm hungry" cry and an "I'm exhausted and fighting it like hell" cry.
Nowadays, the opportunities for interpretation typically run in the other direction. I don't need to explain D to the world, because he's pretty darned good at doing that himself. But I am explaining the world to him, or at least trying to.
There's a time lag, these days, between his questions and my answers, as I struggle for the words to describe phenomena and ideas that I barely understand myself. Today as we stopped at the pharmacy to pick up some medicine that helps out my under-producing thyroid gland, he asked why my body doesn't make enough on its own. "I'm not really sure, buddy," I said, "and I don't know if the doctors even know." "I wonder why my body makes enough?" he continued. "Maybe because I'm new? But I think Grandmother Wid's body makes enough, and she's REALLY old." He's working so hard to have it all make sense.
He also wants to know how wireless email works. I'm going to have to get back to him on that.