This past week when I sat down to blog about milestones of the Tiny Tot, only one sentence wanted to surface, over and over again: Mommy needs a break from every question beginning with the word “Mommy.”
It was so frustrating a thought; I couldn’t get past that one, silly sentence. Even when Tiny Tot exclaimed, “O M my G!” and thousands of Valley girl remarks came to mind–all of which were blog-worthy material–I kept cycling back to the near-constant Mommy questions. Questions I couldn’t handle. Questions that made me want to take refuge in my room, cowering under a mountain of pillows.
Sitting, staring at my computer, I would think, “Dang, Negative! Hello! I can’t blog about taking a break from my name!”
Then I would think, “Wasn’t there a time when my name wasn’t Mommy, and it wasn’t called out a billion times a day?”
… And then I would hear, “Mommy?” sigh in frustration, and close the computer. By that point, that dang Mommy Guilt (http://wingingitmomstyle.com/2013/12/03/working-mom-a-syndrome.aspx) had surfaced. I pretty much walked around all week feeling like a heinous shrew of a mother, undeserving of a tiny tot.
Today I read a fun fact about four year-olds, and my entire world perspective changed. Four year-olds, on average, ask about 437 questions a day. Four hundred, thirty-seven questions a day. On average. So, naturally, I started analyzing what that meant in terms of Momdom. Some days there will be more questions (Lord, save me), and some days there will be less questioning (Praise the Lord!). I believe could deal with that, now that I know it’s normal, and I’m not going bat-shit insane.
Yes, insane. That thought crossed my mind. Insanity has been high up on my list of why I no longer feel capable of dealing with the near-constant questions. I mean, I live in The World of Crazy, so at some point I was destined to go a bit nuts, right? I’m female; I have a child. At some point it was bound to happen.
Seemed logical to me. But, no, no. I’m not crazy. The four year-old questioning has entered our tiny world–in leaps and bounds. My house has hit a new milestone.
“Mommy, why is the puppy dog staring at me? Mommy, why is that man on the TV wearing red? Mommy, why weren’t my arms long enough to reach the sink when I was little, but they are long enough to reach the sink now? Mommy, did I grow? Mommy, why do I have to wash my hands when I just washed them? Mommy, does the puppy dog have hands, or feet, or paws? Mommy, can you fix my Lego man? Mommy, is it sunny or rainy outside? Mommy, can we go outside and play in the back yard? Mommy, can I have a sandwich? Mommy, can I have candy with my sandwich? Mommy, after I drink my white mo, can I have chocolate mo, and then water? Mommy, can you put this sword on my Lego man?”
Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. Usually, my tiny human answers his questions as fast as they come out of his mouth, making the question itself, along with my role, irrelevant.
“Mommy, why is the puppy staring at me? I think he’s staring at me because he wants to eat my toes. Mommy, is it sunny outside or rainy? I’m going to check. I think it’s sunny outside. There’s the sun! I was right!”
He really is a funny booger! My funny, questioning, tiny tot.
After hearing that four year-olds ask an average of 437 questions a day, I wondered at what age a Mother is allowed to regain her sanity. This might also be known as, “When do the questions stop?” Having dug around through vast articles on Google (Three. I looked at three.), I found an article that said by the age of nine, boys ask an average of 144 questions a day. The questioning drops by thirty-three percent because boys become secure with their understanding of the world.
Let me break that down. So, my future nine year-old will ask, on average, one hundred, forty-four questions a day, due to the fact that he has become secure with his understanding of the world around him? Yeah, no. No. Nope. That random fact has yet to make a lick of sense. No, nope. No sense at all. That’s still a heck of a lot of questions.
Hmmm … I found the silver lining. But, it needs a bit of a euphemistic spin: nine year-old boys will ask their teachers most of those 144, on average, per day, questions.
Much better. I can handle that! Or, you know, by the time my tiny human turns nine, I’ll be so numb to the hundreds of questions I’ve heard over the years that the lessened amount will feel like my child no longer talks to me. Then I’ll bemoan the inquisitive days when my child asked why the baby girl at Starbucks was still wearing her pajamas at two in the afternoon.
Or long for the moment that my tiny human asked why wolves were real, but werewolves were not. Or, you know, reminisce on the day that we were in a public bathroom, and he asked if I needed to go pee pee or poo poo, but wouldn’t stop asking until I shushed him and whispered the answer under my breath.
Man, motherhood is a vicious cycle.
I’m going to start counting the questions.