As parents, we’re expected to have all the answers. Or, at least in our children’s eyes, appear to have all the answers. I have never claimed to be some sort of parental super-genius, but I’d like to think that a decade into this job, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. Changing diapers, swaddling, reading stories, knowing which toys are developmentally appropriate and best suited for each stage, are things that no longer give me anxiety. But then, lest I feel too complacent or confident, something will inevitably happen that makes me stop in my tracks, and go “WHAT?!….Why??” There are apparently still many things that I don’t understand.

For example, I don’t understand why my daughter feels the need to answer my questions as though I have the same I.Q. as the dog. I’m not the one who forgot to turn in homework, or the library book and pay the overdue fine! But when asked about these things, she cannot stand my line of questioning, or comprehend why I would require such information. So she tries to explain it to me as slowly and condescendingly as possible. (Please read while rolling your eyes, and imagine that you’re using the kind of truncated speech that you would need to explain calculus to the toaster.)  “Mom. I couldn’t turn. it. in. No one. was. there. I. was too. busy!”

I also don’t understand the obsessive love my baby has for nightlights. I have to go around and unplug every one within his reach and put it up high on a shelf…every. single. day. (Huh, maybe that’s where my daughter gets that from?) It doesn’t matter that he has multiple rooms full of bright, colorful, developmentally-appropriate and safe toys. No no, he wants the nightlights. He cannot resist their siren song. Had I known this ahead of time, I wouldn’t have spent years carefully cultivating what it seems now will become our museum of awesome toys. And would have instead spent my time and money buying mismatched socks, nightlights and TV remotes…the things he actually wants.

I don’t understand why my older son seems physically incapable of simply walking through a room without some sort of jump, dance, ninja kick or general spaz-out in the process. I don’t know what gets hold of him, and I’ve spent a good deal of time looking for some sort of “excitement force-field” in the middle of all our rooms that must be shocking him, but which the rest of us are immune to. It doesn’t appear to exist. And thus, my confusion continues. On an almost daily basis, I find myself staring, shaking my head in utter disbelief at something he’s done. He looks genuinely surprised when I get irritated with him spinning his head into the carpet and flailing his feet.

Me: “I asked if you could count to 100 by 5’s. Why are you flopping around like a fish?!”

Little Man: “I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s not just me.