My daughter asks a lot of questions...and there's a study to prove it

I recently heard on the radio that, according to a study, the average 4 year old asks 400 questions a day. If that's the case, then my 4 year old is clearly above average. Not that I begrudge her inquisitive mind, but adorably curious questions such as, "Where does rain come from?" are met in equal measure by practically unanswerable questions like, "How did they make the sink?" or (and this is answerable, but I don't want to) "How did Daddy put my baby brother in your tummy?"

I know there are moms out there who hear those questions and say, "Why, what an excellent question! I don't know the answer, so let's go look it up!"  And then they pull out their encyclopedia from between their beautifully put together family scrapbooks and their perfectly executed Pinterest projects, look up plumbing and sinks, maybe make up a song about it, and then head to a home improvement store to watch someone put together a sink, and then come home so this mom can make a healthy, gourmet dinner, with her inquisitive little angel assisting, never mind the mess, because life is about the EXPERIENCE.

That mom seems annoyingly perfect.  She probably isn't, and after she's cleaned up from the EXPERIENCES of the day, she collapses on the couch with a really big glass of wine and tries to reassure herself that she's a good mom, just like the rest of us.  Her "good mom" cred is just more overt.  But I'm NOT that mom, and I'm far more likely to just, you know, make crap up when I don't know the answers.  "How did they make the sink?"  "Elves made it with magic tools."  "Really?? Where do the elves live?" "Under the floor. They come out at night and make stuff like sinks and bathtubs and toilets.  They're called 'Plumbing Elves'.  Every house has them."

Yeah, I lie to my kids.  They believe in Santa, and the Easter Bunny, and plumbing elves.  My daughter thinks that thunder is how the clouds know when to rain so that the flowers grow.  She thinks that her nightlight has a real ocean in it.  She thinks that her Sheepy eats lunch while she's at school, and that's why he's never hungry.  She thinks that her Daddy put her baby brother in my tummy by using magic.  And sometimes, as I'm considering how to answer "What makes the car go?", I think, "Ugh, it would probably be better for her if we looked this up later, even if she's not really going to understand the internal combustion engine."  As much as I think a little mystery and magic are an important part of my kids' lives, I also want them to learn.  I promise myself that we're going to buy a kids encyclopedia, and we're going to look up the tough answers, and we're going to go out and illustrate those answers through EXPERIENCES, and maybe I'll join Pinterest and make handprint wreathes and other crap with the kids, and I'll let them help with dinner even though the mess will make me crazy, and I'll really be a GOOD MOM.

And then I say, "Engine elves.  Every car has them."

The Lifestyle Variables Which Have Led to Corpulence...Or, Why I'm Fat

First things first.  You may have noticed that I've abandoned my previous title style, which was a completely obvious, not the least bit subtle rip off of the chapter titles in any Winnie-the-Pooh book.  I can't put my finger on why I did it, but I've decided that it sounds affected, and it annoys me.  So, I'm over it. 

Now, on to the actual post. 

Ok, let me say that I'm probably exaggerating a bit when I use the word "fat".  Yes, I am overweight, but I'm not obese (although in the interests of full disclosure, I was for about 2 years), and you probably wouldn't pick me out of a crowd and say, "What a cow."  I'm not going to mention actual numbers here, but let's just say that there's a size I want to be, and I'm not that size.  I'm close, but not quite there.  I'm actually in that super fun limbo of being between sizes, when one size is too big and requires a belt, but the next size down is still just a bit too tight.  So let us say that I'm a size and a half away from my goal. 

The Communication Abilities of My Children, or Lack Thereof

Communicating with small children should be a specialized scientific field, and I deserve a freaking PhD.  I have two kids with vastly different communicative abilities due to their ages, and in the case of my daughter, her willingness to be understood.  There are days when I go back and forth between wishing my son could talk, and wishing my daughter couldn't, and there are even days when I ban the word "Mommy" from being uttered in my hearing.  Ever seen the episode of Family Guy when Stewie stands next to Lois' bed and repeats different forms of the word "Mom" over and over?  TOTALLY. EFFING. ACCURATE.

My son is only 9 months old, so his main form of communication is screaming.  He has various forms of screaming, from joyful, to interested, to angry, to upset, and even just to hear his own voice.  His secondary form is Chuck Norris level karate moves to get to what he wants, and these usually occur while I'm holding him, and therefore am keeping him from getting to what he wants.  And because I don't want him to ingest Barbie shoes or lick the dog bowls, I am regularly sporting bite marks on my arms or huge bruises on my chest.  Communicating with babies is exactly like communicating with cats.  You ask a lot of rhetorical questions (What do you what?  What's wrong?  Are you hungry?), and they ignore you unless they need food or attention.  And no matter how many times you remove a cat or a baby from an area, if that's where they want to be, they're going right back.  The cat is going to sit in the middle of your book, and the baby is going to try to climb the bookcase.  Or vice versa.

Communication with a preschooler is a different level of frustration.  My daughter will be 4 next week, and has been able to effectively communicate her wants and needs for about 2 years now.  She's always been verbally advanced, with a wide vocabulary and very clear speech.  Unless she doesn't want you to understand her.  Then she adopts a new speech pattern, which sounds pretty much like she is speaking without opening her mouth.  She usually saves it up for asking me questions to which the answer is 99% guaranteed to be "no".  For example:  "Mommy?"  (this is the only clear word spoken, so that I am fully aware that she is addressing her mumbles to me) "CanIhavechiwennummesfalooon"  Did ya get that?  No?  Shocking!!  And here comes my response:
"I can't understand you.  What did you say?"
"CANIHAVECHIWENUMMESFALOOON???" (because raising the volume helps.  Like when people yell at non-English speakers.  Screaming the words must immediately make them understandable.)
"A, I don't know what you're saying.  I can't understand you when you mumble!"
"I'm asking about LUNCH!!!" (suddenly, she speaks as clearly and crisply as James Earl Jones)
"What about lunch?"
"CanIhavechiwenummesfaloon?"

At this point I retreat into a tiny corner of my mind, and scream that high pitched horror movie scream that I'm unable to produce from my throat due to my lower pitched voice.  And then I say, "Ok, fine, whatever."  And we finally get to the crux of the matter when I serve her a cheese sandwich and carrots for lunch, and she dissolves into tears and says, "I wanted CHICKEN NUGGETS!!"  Because clearly she was asking, "Can I have chicken nuggets for lunch?"  Obviously.  Mom fail.  Not really though, because, A. I didn't understand her, and B. the answer would have been "no" had I understood her.  But because I gave up trying to figure out what she was saying and gave her a "Fine, whatever", she's now in a position to say that I gave her the wrong lunch.  And I'm stuck with a miserable kid who won't eat.

I'm not ashamed to admit that about 50% of the time, I give in and make her chicken nuggets.  And the inmates take over the asylum, yet again...;)