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"I don't understand why babies are so annoying," he said.

Resist urge to admit that you don't understand why 10-year-olds are so annoying.

As he dug and Clara Jane played, I stayed nearby, listening to him and fielding his questions without daring to start a conversation on my own.

"I know a kid who munched a fly once," he said. "And then another kid munched a fly, and another and another and another. I was the one who told them to do it," he said.

"Really? You didn't munch the fly, too?"

"No! Gross! Hey. You know what Snoopy did?"

"No telling," I said.

"You know what he did?"

"No. What did Snoopy do?"

"He ate a turd and then panted in my mom's face. It was pretty funny."

And so it went. Boy kept peppering me with exclaimations about things that may or may not have happened, and I entertained them.

"Your baby looks more like you than B.," he said.

"Really? Most people say she looks like him."

"You know who she really looks like, a little?"

"Who?"

"I shouldn't tell you. You won't like it."

That's exactly what every mother wants to hear, but oh, the curiosity was far, far too strong to give good sense a fighting chance.

"Go on Boy. Tell me. It's okay."

"If you look at her right, she kinda looks a little like Chucky."

Being the kind of mother I am, I called Clara Jane over and asked her to show Boy Devil Baby:

Boy was impressed. Mightily impressed. Suddenly that baby wasn't nearly as irritating as he first assumed, not when you can get her to look like the Dark Lord on command.

"Hey. Do you know what I saw last night, when I got up in the middle of the night and went into my mom and dad's room?"

Resist the urge to say, "Yep, I have a feeling I know what you saw and nope, I'm not explaining it to you."

Against my better judgement - because I don't know how to talk to kids at all - I said, "I don't know, Boy. What did you see?"

That last sentence there? That's the one that proves that I'm an idiot.

"My mom and dad were doing ... something. I dunno what it was. They were rolling from side to side, all over the bed. They were going up and down and moving all over the place."

"Um ... maybe they were testing the mattress. You know, to make sure it was comfortable."

"No, that's not what they were doing. That mattress is really, really comfortable. What do you think they were doing?"

Now, at this point I'm not sure what's going on, if he's really unaware of that part of life (although he's always more than willing to keep us abreast of when his dog humps our dogs), or if he knows what they were doing and is testing me to see if I know what they're doing. I may not know how to talk to kids, but I'm not completely stupid. I'm not biting this bait, because let me tell you, I don't want to explain the facts of life to this kid. And frankly, the urge to tell him to go listen to Weezer's "Tired of Sex" was a might too strong.

"I don't know what they were doing. Maybe you should ask them."

"Okay."

An hour and a half later, I'm wondering if he's gotten The Talk from his folks yet, and when I should expect the angry knock on my door.

Apparently, my suggestion appeased him. He returned to building a sandcastle for that not-so-irritaing baby, quiet for a few minutes. "Did you know that I have a little sister?" he asked.

"Yep. Your mom told me that."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"Do you?" I asked.

"Yeah. Adopted." He said the word with the same tone of voice most boys his age reserve for words like "grounded" and "busted" - tough, but filled with resignation and disappointment. I know how the story goes. Boy's parents were very young when he was born. When his sister was born two years later, they knew they didn't have the ability to care for two children. A relative adopted her when she was a few months old.

"Do you ever see her?"

"No. Only once a year." His eyes stayed down and he grew quiet.

Now, if I can't carry on a conversation about fly-eating or dog-humping with this kid, how can I touch this one? I can't, and I don't. I stay quiet, looking at him, hoping to convey that he can keep talking, if he wants. He doesn't, not for a few minutes, just keeps looking at the sand as he moves it around with a little blue plastic trowel.

"I've got a secret," he finally says.

I brace myself. If he willingly divulges about his parents' sex life and his lost sibling, I don't even want to know what he considers secret.

"Is it a secret you want to tell?"

"No. Forget it. I don't want to tell it."

"Are you sure? I mean, you brought it up. Whatever it is, I promise I won't laugh."

"It's stupid. I get teased by kids at school, and it's a Christian school. That's not right."

"No, it's not. It's not right at a Christrian school or any school. But it happens, and it sucks."

"Yeah, it does. You know how people tease you, saying that you love someone?"

"Yep, I know how that happens. That happens to everyone at some point. And it sucks." I can't come up with anything better to say to this kid that doesn't involve the word "suck". "But you know what'll happen?"

"They'll get theirs?"

"Yep. Someday, someone will tease them about being in love with someone, and they'll know how crappy it feels, and they'll never do it again. I'll bet you're never going to tease anyone now, are you?"

"Nope. You wanna know another secret?"

Not really, as I'm getting exhausted, but I nod anyway.

"At my school, they spank kids with a paddle, and it's a Christian school."

"I don't think that's right," I said.

"Me either. Your baby's really smart."

"Thanks. You're right, she is."

"But not as smart as me."

"That's right, too. You've got a few years on her."

"She may never be as smart as me."

I didn't have an answer for that one.

Boy's mom poked her head out the door, calling him to come home so they could run to the store. He ran home without saying goodbye, brushing the sand from his pants.

I don't know why I dread seeing Boy. He always makes me laugh, and he makes me think. I think the dread is rooted in laziness, because it's work to converse with him. But like most things that are hard, it's always worth it. Even if I can't look his parents in the eye anymore.