The meaning of existence

My not-yet-4-year-old son asked me this morning "What does ‘existence’ mean?"

At 6:30 in the fucking morning.  

Usually he asks me over and over "Why do you go to work?"   "Why do you have to do work?" when I’m either late for work or sitting at my computer staring blankly at an assessment task I’m not completing on time again.  Taunting me.  The little bastard.  As if I don’t ask myself 8 million times a day that same question with a few expletives added in.  Why don’t you ask daddy why he hasn’t been to work in 5 years?  Do the math, kid, he’s only had you to use as a cover for 4 years, so what was going on before that?  Oh, I’m an artist, neh neh neh neh neh, see you’re not really a proper anarcho-feminist if you say I’m supposed to work, blah blah blah blah, if you loved me you wouldn’t try to change me, spleh spleh spleh….   I go to work to support your daddy’s broke arse, so it’s a touchy subject – try and just don’t mention it. 

Even better are the "what happens if" questions.  "What happens if I say ‘fucking bullshit’ at Grandma’s house?"  Seriously, he asked me that.  I don’t know, I replied, but I bet it would be fun to find out.  Go on, say it to her.   But he wouldn’t say it – which means he already knew the answer to the stupid question and shouldn’t have been wasting my time.

And now he’s asking me about existence.  Sorry, little boy, but there is no meaning to existence, so I’m afraid I can’t define it.  There’s no Santa Claus, dying does hurt and you don’t go to Heaven where you can eat ice cream all day.  Next question, please, Socrates.  Are you going to ask me to define "irony"?  What do I look like to you – Ethan fucking Hawke?!

So I just shook enough brain damage into him so he went back to asking about why I go to work and what would happen if he drank wee-wee. Problem solved.