I can’t handle the constant questions.
I was sort of prepared for things like “Why is the sky blue?” But my little darling isn’t nearly that abstract. All the way to the midwife’s office yesterday he was full of his special kind of questions.
“Why are we stopping?” Because the car in front of me is stopping.
“Why is the car in front of us stopping?” I don’t know.
“Why are we turning here?” Because this is how we get to the midwife.
“Why is the midwife here?” I don’t know.
“Where is my doctor?” His office is that direction.
“Why is he that direction?” I. Don’t. Know.
“Where did that bird come from?” Evolution.
The nicknames I acquired in my family of origin always went along the lines of Little Miss Know It All or Little Miss Smarty Pants. I’d tell you they were uttered with affection, but I’d be lying. My parents wanted me to get an education and do well in school but were dismayed when I did really well in school, and they certainly didn’t want me to be smart.
So I suppose all those toddler questions that I can't even begin to answer should humble me. They just irritate me.
I was filled with sweet relief when he started singing, "Baby poop! Baby poops out baby butt!"