“Daddy,” my six-year old said, “Who’s Roxanne?”

“Huh?” I asked. I was making breakfast, doing my morning routine on autopilot. I had no idea who Roxanne was.

“Roxanne,” he repeated. “Why doesn’t she have to put on the red lights?”

Yikes. That’s the problem with autopilot. It often comes with singing. In this case, the song had been Roxanne by the Police (and reprised in Moulin Rouge), not a song that is easily explained to a 6-year old.

“It’s just a silly song,” I said, putting down the cereal box.

“What is the red light?” he asked.

I poured milk on the cereal. “It doesn’t mean anything,” I said.

“But why doesn’t she have to put it on?”

“I don’t know,” I said, desperate to get out of the conversation. “Maybe she does. Now come get your breakfast.”

“But-”

“Eat,” I said. “I’ll go get your brother.”

Boy, do I hope he forgets that conversation! “Maybe she does?” What on earth was I thinking?

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