Twenty (Thousand) Questions

Jump to Comments

Having children is like signing up for an eighteen-year stint on a quiz show. Day in and day out you’ll be peppered with rapid-fire questions the way shooting gallery ducks are pelted with BBs. Even before your children can speak, you know that they’re storing up questions so that their first complete sentence will be a noodle-scratcher like “Why is the speed of light considered a universal constant?”

Actually, no child asks that. Which is a real pity because at least you could look up the answer in any conveniently handy book on quantum physics. Instead, your children will test the limits of your understanding with seemingly innocent questions.

When my oldest was three, I introduced him to the Disney version of Sleeping Beauty. We’d just gotten to the part where Malificent crashes the party. As an adult, it was easy to see why she hadn’t been invited; She was bad mannered and about as much fun as dermatologist at a tanning center. My son asked, “Why is she being a bad guy?”

“She has a serious personality disorder with sociopathic tendencies,” I said. I hoped the answer would confuse him enough to keep him quiet. I should have known better.

“Why?”

“She came from a broken home.”

“Why?”

“Because when she was a little girl she always asked questions and finally her father went nuts and was committed to an institution where he passed the time by making portraits of Elvis out of pecan shells.”

There was a moment of silence and in a thoughtful voice my son said, “Oh.”

I think he wanted an Elvis bust for his very own, because he’s spent the rest of his life trying to question me into madness.

One of his favorite toddler tactics was to point at objects and ask their names. “Wha’ is dis?”

“It’s a spoon. We use them to eat.” Never one to take anything at face value, he turned to his mother and said, “Wha’ is dis?” Later, just to make sure I was going to stick with my story, he asked again.

No matter what the answer, he always checked later to make sure it was the same. Eventually my patience gave out. “It’s a spoon. We use it bludgeon people who ask too many questions!”

That was the one time he chose to believe me.

“Mommy,” he said triumphantly, “Is a ‘poon we use it to budgeon people.”

As he got older, the questions got more difficult. I prepared for that. I read books about being a parent. They told me to answer my child’s questions honestly and as completely as possible.

I spent hours studying science, the arts, history, philosophy, and religion. I was going to be a super parent. My son would be so well educated that by Kindergarten he’d be ready for his SATs. I prepared for Alex Trebek. What I got was Geraldo Rivera.

He developed an intense interest in my personal life. “Why is mommy fat?” he asked one day.

“Mommy isn’t fat, Sport,” I said. “She’s pregnant.”

“Why is mommy pregnant?” What could I say? I told him mommy’s contract specified that she had to go through pregnancy to show she really, sincerely wanted a new baby. He nodded wisely and I held my breath until I was sure he wasn’t going to ask an awkward follow-up question. To the best of my recollection, I let out that breath around the time he turned fourteen.

When he was four he took an unhealthy interest in the psychology of my relationship with my wife.

“Why is Mommy mad to you?”

“Mad at me, Sport,” I said. “Mommy is mad at me.”

“Why is mommy mad to you?”

“Mommy is mad AT me because I washed her white blouse and a new pair of jeans in the same load.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not very good at doing laundry.”

“Why?”

“Because I never really paid attention to doing laundry.”

“Why?” Eventually I had to feign sudden-onset deafness to get him to drop that line of questioning. No character being interrogated on Law & Order ever had a more thorough grilling than my son gave me. If I didn’t stop him, he’d “why” me all the way back to the creation of the universe.

Things didn’t improve when his brother was old enough to talk. Having more than one child means they can engage in “multi-asking”. One hits you with a question and before you’ve recovered another steps in to deliver the next blow to your brain. Five or ten minutes of this and you’ll begin to doubt your own intellectual gifts. Fifteen minutes and you’ll wonder how you ever managed to tie your own shoes.

Children are also good at mindless repetitive questions like, “Are we there yet?”, “Can we go to McDonald’s”, and “Are you awake?” Answering “No” to any of these questions is interpreted by your children as an invitation to an extended debate. With all the sincerity and sweetness they can muster, they’ll ask the simple (and insidious) question, “Why not?”

Inexperienced parents try to turn these conversations into learning opportunities; a chance for a discussion, an occasion for both sides to represent their interests fairly and openly. More seasoned veterans are quick to retreat to the safety of “I’m the Daddy, that’s why.”

When my family was still young, I held out hope that I’d get a break as my kids grew. After all, when they were about five I’d get to send them off to school where there were people specially trained in the arcane art of sharing information with children. As it turned out, the teachers were more than happy to take the easy questions like “How much is two times five?” and “What is the Krebs cycle?”, leaving me with the harder topics like “What should I do with my life?” and “Why did she break my heart?”

2 Comments

Filed under Humor Essay

Tags: family, kids, parenting