Scarlett and I are going to the store. She climbs in the car. I buckle her in her car seat. I get buckled into my seat. I start the car. And then? The questions start.
"Mommy, can we go to Walmart to buy food?"
"That's what we're doing, sweetie."
"Mommy, can we go that way?"
"We have to go this way to get to Walmart."
"Walmart is this way?"
"Mommy, do you see the spaceship?"
There is a school between our house and Walmart. Their sign proudly proclaims they are a "NASA Explorer School." Whatever that means. But they have a small (compared to the real thing) rocket ship out front, and Scarlett loves to point it out. "Yes, I see it."
"Mommy, did we make the spaceship?"
"Did other people make the spaceship?"
Sigh. "Yes, baby, other people made the spaceship."
"Did the man make the spaceship?" My sister took Scarlett with her to get her toenails painted at a "real" nail shop. Apparently, once, it was a man who painted Scarlett's toes pink. Since then? She likes to ask if "the man" has done this or that.
"I don't know, honey. People at the school made the spaceship."
"The school made the spaceship?"
"Can I go to school?"
At this point, I feel like my nerves are being slowly murdered. Each question is like a merciless stab from a razor-sharp hunting knife and my poor defenseless nerves are pooling blood into my tired brain. "It's summertime, Scarlett. Nobody's going to school. School is closed."
Aargh! "Summertime is when it's hot out and nobody goes to school and it's when your birthday is."
"What's a birthday?"
"Your birthday is when you were born from Mommy's tummy and you turn a year older and you get cake and presents."
"Mommy, what's cake?"
"You know what cake is." I say this a lot. Except with other words in the place of cake.
"Did the man make my cake?"
Sigh. "I don't know. I don't know what the man is doing. Can you please be quiet and stop asking me questions for five minutes? Mommy has a headache."
Scarlett is quiet for all of two seconds. Then, in a whisper: "Mommy, what's a headache?"