He wants to know how stuff works, why stuff is where it is. "how do they know what the weather will be?" "why does the garbage get picked up on Thursdays?" "why is that sign right there and not closer to the store?"
But it doesn't end there. He wants to know who people are, why I'm walking around carring a spatula in my hand and where I got the spatula. He wants to know who I'm talking to on the phone to and why. He wants to know why Sydney is in trouble (in the rare event that he is not implicated in the trouble, that is). He's our family's own Mrs. Kravitz: a busybody.
Not surprisingly this leads to many questions when it comes to the rules of life. Ages ago I blogged on Conventional Parenting Wisdom and my meager efforts to simply the rules. I think whatever success I ever had, has been completely forgotten is episodes such as this:
"Jackson, don't bodyslam into the patio window" I say as he lauches himself there from the mini-trampoline. I'm not sure if I'm more worried about the window, his dental status, his cranium or his becoming as a mosquito to a windshield.
"Because I don't want you to get hurt."
Window slamming continues.
"Jackson, don't jump onto the window, I don't want you to get hurt!!"
He hears "don't ... get hurt".
"I'm not getting hurt."
"Well you might get hurt. Just because you didn't hurt yourself the first time, doesn't mean you won't the tenth."
Bounce, bounce, bounce, SLAM.
"Jackson, if you break that window it's 100 years of your allowance. At least. Don't slam, you might might break the window!!!!"
He hears "don't .... break the window!"
"I'm not breaking the window."
And so it goes. You can see why I need my hair coloured so often and why I never seem to get the laundry done around here.
On the weekend on my watch, the kids went into Husband's shop and started "fixing" their toys. When Husband returned from his weekly trip to the home improvement store, I had thought that they were in the kitchen or outside as I could hear their voices. It turns out they were downstairs. They each dragged a chair and they were standing on them in front of the bench, hardly believing of the good fortune of Mommy being on the computer for so long.
"Umm, guys, shops are for grown ups", I said in a high pitched voice, pretending to be calm.
"Mommy, we've been here for an hour" Jackson responded. If he's ever done something once, he takes that as tacit approval to do it into eternity.
"Mommy, only the hammers are dangerous and we're not touching the hammers." Sydney responded.
"Shops are for grownups." I said with finality that I hoped they would not read as resignation.
So imagine my perturb-ment when today they ventured into MY side of the shop. I store treasures and importantly hide gifts. They crawled in and around and even found a few stashed gifts that I had entirely missed over some such holiday.
I started to rant about disrespect and privacy, and could see myself getting a little worked up, so instead I regrouped and posted this sign on the door, which amused Jackson:
I trust that is clear enough even for the future lawyers in the family.