Little sponges

I’m all for children being little sponges.  Go ahead, soak up that knowledge.   Become so sopping wet with it that by the time you’re of college age, the possibilities will spread before you like the ocean and the learning will lead to earning -  big bucks to take care of Mama in her old age, that is.  Oh yeah, and a few nice little amenities for yourself, like not living paycheck to paycheck or worrying how you’re going to pay the mortgage every time you buy a cheeseburger.  Yeah, that too.

But for crying out loud, while you’re soaking up all this knowledge, visit many different bodies of water.  Mama is only one small, bubbling brook, and you’re drying me up!

I don’t know how I got one overly curious kid from our gene pool, let alone two, but it’s enough to drive a person straight up mad some days.

I distinctly remember when this stage hit with my big kid, around age four.  I couldn’t walk through a room carrying a Dust Vac, envelope, tape measure or post-it note without getting the third degree.

What you got, Mama?
Where did you get it?
What’s in it?
What does it do?
What are you going to do with it?
Why are you doing that?
What does it say on it?
Who made it?
Why did they make it like that?
Where did they make it?
How did they make it?
Do you have another one?
What color is it?
Can I see it?
Where are you going with it?


Good grief!  It could be a rock from the yard and the child would think of a way to ask 52 questions about it.   And around, oh, the fifth one, you just want to scream, It’s a rock! Get over it already!

Now that he’s seven, the questions are still there, they’ve just become more intelligent, and filled with lots of frustration in his voice as the two year old interrupts twelve times per question.

And why is she interrupting?   Because, God bless her smart little brain, she has decided that she can not wait until age four to get a jump on all this knowledge.   Her vocabulary is already five times that of her brother’s at this age, so it’s no wonder she’s two years ahead on the barrage of questions as well.

But really, how many times can one woman answer “What, Mama?” in a day and not just come right out and ASK for a padded room.  At least there, it would be quiet.

I open a cabinet.
“What, Mama?”

I retrieve an object.
“What, Mama?”

I place said object on the counter.
“What, Mama?”

I move a second object.
“What, Mama?

I sigh.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to sound just a wee bit irritated.
“What, Mama?”

I begin to pace like a caged animal.
“What, Mama?”

I get out the Yellow Pages.
“What, Mama?”

I pick up the phone.
“What, Mama?”

I program the asylum into speed dial.

So help me, if she says it again, my finger is poised above the button...


Oh, but wait.... she’s distracted. Thank you, Jesus!   I turn to see what the distraction is, but before I can even spin the full 180, I hear her brother say, “Mom, can I ask you something?”


Whoever said children are like little sponges never had mine.  There are sponges and then there are alien creatures sent here from the planet Why with the sole purpose of sucking every trace of moisture from your brain.   Oh, but just between you and me, be careful who you tell that to.  The white coats will be here in twenty minutes...