I admire my husband. He works really hard. Most days he works 10-12 hours, comes home to play with the boys and helps put them to bed, and then works another 2-3 hours in the office. Just today he drove to Los Angeles and back. There are days he’s doing stucco, installing pools, and crawling through attics. But nothing he does can compare to this:
“Mommy, do horses dig? Why are you turning left? Are we at the library? Why is the light green? Why is it red? Why didn’t you stop when it was yellow? Can we go home now? Can I have a snack? Mommy? Why do you have eyebrows? Can I watch Backyardigans? Why do I have to sit on the potty? How do you say ‘flagpole’ in Armenian? Would Dede know? Why does Silas get to go in the car first? Are the neighbors home? Can we play outside? Mommy? When is Daddy coming home? What in the sky is white? Is the strawberry stand open? Can we take cookies to the firemen? Why do we have to listen to James’s song again? Where did Jesus die? Why does the leprechaun keep his gold at the end of the rainbow? Is this a real penny? Can I have another snack? Can you come to my room with me? Why can’t I step in the puddle? What does that even mean? Mommy? What else is green? Why doesn’t that bus have a stop sign on it? What’s inside a tree? Why is the fence dirty? Is that stinkbug dead? Can we stay in the tub for one bazillion minutes? Why do you need privacy in the bathroom? Where’s my piggy bank? Where’s my big kindergarten workbook? Where’s the pen that goes with it? What’s cerulean? Why can’t it just be blue? Why do strawberries have these little seeds on them? Why are we only reading two bedtime stories? Mommy?”
And in an effort not to squelch my beautiful, intelligent, curious, inquisitive boys’ spirits, I answer every question.
OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.