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So it seems my little one is finally finding the words for everything that’s been bugging her for three years now.  She’s been a bit of a late talker, but it’s definitely been fun to listen to all the stuff that’s been going on inside her head for all these years. 

At dinner tonight, what can only be described as the Inquisition, began. 

“Mama, where’d this chair come from?” she asked, pointing to the chair just underneath her booster seat. 

“The store,” I said simply. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Mama!  That’s my favorite!” 

“Well, we knew it would be.  That’s why we went out and bought it twenty-five years before you were born.” 

She seemed stumped.  “And where’d THAT chair come from?”  She pointed to Daddy’s chair. 

“The store.” 

“And sissy’s chair?” 

“Let me save you time.  All the chairs, plus the table, came from the store.” 

She was happy.  For thirteen seconds. 

“How’d that floor get there?” she asked, pointing to the kitchen tile.

My husband answered, “The store,” at the same time I answered, “Some men worked really hard and put it there.” 

“And me and sissy could put one there too?” 

“If you study really hard and go to school for that.”  I’m sure it doesn’t take a college degree to lay a floor.  But as far as my kids are concerned, you need a degree to work the cash register at McDonald’s. 

She looked shocked that so much work went into one small aspect of our house. 

“And how’d that big door, and that big door, and those two baby doors get there?” she inquired once again, motioning to our cabinets. 

“The store.”  That seems a much simpler answer that she’s able to absorb better. 

Suddenly, her own hand in front of her face intrigued her.  “How did I here?”  She was stunned.  The thought was obviously only just occurring to her. 

“The doctor’s gave you to us at the hospital.” 

“They DID?!  But then, how did I get home?” 

“Daddy carried you,” my husband interjected.  She looked skeptical.  But then, she changed courses again.

“Where do bugs come from?” 

I thought I understood the question.  But when I answered, “From outside,” I got the huff that only girls can give you.  An exasperated sigh. 

“Noooo.  How do they GET inside?” 

“Oh.  How do they get inside, from outside?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she nodded.  Happy that I finally understood. 

“Little girl’s leave the door open too long.”

It still wasn’t the answer she was looking for.  “No!  How?!!”

“They fly.  Or walk.  Depending on the kind of bug, of course.” 

“Or maybe they’re sitting on the little girl when she comes inside,” Papa ventured. 

She looked at him in horror, and right then decided maybe she’d had enough with the Q&A’s for now.  As she got down from the table, after finishing her dinner, she had one last question in mind. 

“Can I have a snack?!” 

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