"Mom," says Preston, "When I grow up I want to be a smuster."

"A mister?"

"NO! A Smuster!"

I pause for a moment before saying solemnly, "I do not understand what you mean." This is the only response that will prompt the child to rephrase, rather than to just repeat what he’s said more slowly and loudly, as if to an imbecile.

"You know Mom, when something is strange," he carefully rephrases, as if talking to an imbecile.

"When . . . something is strange." I have no idea what he’s talking about.

"Yeah. A smuster is for when something is strange," he says patiently.

"I do not understand what you mean," I say again.

There is an elaborate sigh, then a pause, then he bursts into song. "When there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who you gonna call? GO SMUSTERS!"

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