After all, toddlers are notorious for embarrassing the adults in their lives, right?

No, he didn’t blurt out some dark secret he wasn’t supposed to have overheard. He didn’t pull his pants down and pee in public (like he sometimes does in the yard). He didn’t say a bad word he shouldn’t have heard me say (because I am very careful what I say around him).

We went to the zoo today. He adored the primate house–he danced, skipped, ran, walked hunched over like a gorilla. Bounced from one end of the building to the other, eager to see the gorillas, then the orangutans, then the gorillas, then the orangutans, then the other monkeys, then the gorillas…blah blah. He got so excited and tried so hard to make friends that I think he scared a couple of other kids with his intensity. (I’ve ever done anything remotely like that, of course.) I had to tell him to stop chasing one poor little girl who had raced from him to her parents, casting looks back that clearly said, “Stay away from me, you psycho!” Poor little guy–he just wanted someone his own size to share the thrill.

So we’re standing by the orangutans and he’s pointed out the “really HUUUGE” one, and I’ve explained that it’s the daddy. (There’s also a mommy and a baby named Godek, who’s a month older than my nephew.) Suddenly, out of the blue and at the top of his lungs, Zach says, “THEY’RE GONNA KILL THE DADDY!”

The patriarch of the Sumatran orangutan clan, and the object of my nephew’s murderous impulse, last summer

“No!” I say. “No one’s gonna kill the daddy!”

“YES!” Zach insists. “THEY NEED TO KILL THE DADDY!”

(He has already informed me, mind you, that both the adult female orangutans and the adult gorillas “seem pretty nice,” so I don’t know why he has suddenly taken this stand.)

“No, they don’t need to kill the daddy!” I say, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable and aware of the proximity of other people and their children. “The daddy’s nice. We like the daddy!”

“YES! I’M GONNA KILL THE DADDY!” Zach booms. “SOMEONE’S GONNA DIE!”

(This is SO not my fault, I promise!)

Finally I stopped trying to argue with him about the merit of the daddy orangutan’s continued existence and instead suggested a return to the gorilla viewing area. To my relief, Zach allowed himself to be distracted, and there was no more talk of killing the zoo’s specimens of endangered species.

Although the hippos were among the things Zach was initially most excited about seeing, they scared him. Hippos are like fireworks, horses, and apparently, until two weeks ago, also his Uncle William: He thinks they’re really cool and talks like he’s a badass, but in person they kind of scare him and he wants to keep his distance. Today he was content to watch the hippos from afar, admiring one open her mouth and show off her huge teeth, and the other swim and then climb out of the pool. Then one of them started snorting or grunting or something, a loud noise that reverberated through the little building. Poor Zach turned white and clamped his hands over his ears. He kept his hands over his ears well after the hippo subsided, as we walked around to look at the penguins and the frogs, the python and the Komodo dragon, and the fish. When we got outside, he said very quietly, “The hippo was so pretty loud.”

When we got home, my mother’s friend and her husband were visiting. Zach took out his cars and began to play. The husband said to him, “Are those Hot Wheels?”

“No,” says Zach. “They are not hot wheels. The wheels are just warm.”