When I was around 41, I asked my kids the question we haven’t yet answered. I think it was summertime, which made Danny 9 and Katie on the approach to 15.

“Imagine you have a perfectly balanced coin,” I said, “that will never land on its edge. Every time you toss it, it will come up either heads or tails, and none of it will ever wear away.” I recall them watching my face as I laid out the question while we stood in the kitchen. “You’re going to toss it an infinite number of times. Now tell me: do you think it’s possible for the coin to never come up tails?”

We looked at each other for several moments. Then, “No” from Katie, and Danny joined her before she’d finished the vowel.

“Really.” That was from me, with no question mark.

“Yeah. Think about it, Mom. An infinite number of tosses. It has to come up tails.”

I was amazed. They responded faster than I thought they would and different than I did. “Come on you guys,” I countered. “Isn’t each toss a new 50/50 deal? Why couldn’t it always come up heads?”

“Infinity, Mom. You don’t seem to understand infinity.”

“But,” I sputtered (and it was weird for me to sputter at what my kids thought), “but if an infinite number of tosses means anything that can happen will happen, then doesn’t that also mean it will happen over and over again?”

You bet our heads were spinning. We all saw points and problems with either answer. And I think we all perceived, just faintly because it was outside our realm, that the question has no meaning if one understands infinity. And that understanding infinity was outside our realm.

It’s moot. Looking up “moot” is within our realm. Everyone I know thinks it means “irrelevant.” Not. “Moot” means “debatable.” It suggests you have to table the question, because you all understand you’ll never agree about it.