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"Give me the scissors," I said, squatting and holding out my hand. "Bring them here right now."

"No," my two-year-old son said, holding them behind his back.

"Give them to me," I repeated. "I'm going to count to three, and if you still have the scissors when I say three,' I'm putting them away. You won't get to play with them anymore."

Now, before you berate me for giving a sharp object to a toddler, you should know that these are Play-Doh scissors that honestly couldn't cut a wet Kleenex. That's still no excuse for attempting to use them to cut off the dog's tail. Hence, my demand.

"One, two," I said, positioning my lips and tongue for the final count.

He ambled toward me, quickly at first, but slowing with every other step. When he was three feet away, he had slowed to a pause. A wicked little grin spread across his angelic face. He knew he had me hanging in limbo. If he just sat there without seeming to give in, the bell would have tolled "three," and he would have lost his surgical tool.

But by pacing himself perfectly, he had put just enough time between "two" and his halt that I really couldn't just fire off a "three." In fairness, I would have to start counting again.

"This kid is good," I thought to myself. Not only does he know pretty much every word I say to him, but he's also studied and timed my reactions and patterns enough to know what I'm about to do - and what his best move is. He is actually one step ahead of me at all times.

But he gets it honestly. My wife is one of the most brilliant people I've ever known - wise beyond her years. I know that there are few things I could ever discuss that she would not fully comprehend. But when I tell her something that I think should be done, she usually either ignores me or does exactly the opposite.

Incredibly, my little guy reacts much the same way. I don't know how a kid his age can understand everything that comes out of a well-educated 33-year-old man's mouth.

But he does.

Consider this: About nine months ago, he was in one of those weird phases in which he absolutely refused to take a bath, but would refuse to get out of the bath once I was ready to get him out. Since the mere mention of the word "bath" would send him into a mad dash for freedom, we started spelling it.

On the third day of our spelling trick, I asked my wife if she was ready for me to give him "his b-a-t-h." By the time my mouth had finished the "a" and my tongue had punched the hard edge of the "t," I saw a little tan streak flash by my leg and down the unlit hall. Not only does he comprehend some college-level words, but he is already a better speller than half of my seventh grade students.

Multi-syllable words are no problem for this little whiz, like when I say "chocolate" and hear his tiny footsteps slapping the tile as he darts out of his dark hiding spot, or when I say "antibiotic" to Mommy and hear the pitter-patter reverse direction.

There are times that he'll feign ignorance simply to keep me on my toes, pretending he doesn't know simple words like "bedtime." He will even try to keep me sharp by forcing me to recognize opposites, illustrating the concept with his reaction to words like "don't," "no," and "quiet," which he pretends to think means "as loudly as possible."

But there's always that twinkle in his eye that clues me in. This two year old understands every word I utter. In his little grin, I read him loud and clear: "Just testing you, Daddy."

Learn more about this author, Todd Christian.
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