Tell me why… — Lucy Symons

I had coffee with an old school friend, Louise, the other day. I was meeting her son for the first time (and he was fat and delicious and everything a gorgeous baby should be). Louise’s first born, Isabel, was safely ensconced in playgroup so we had a brief respite and could focus on the new baby entirely without igniting the wrath of a scorned sibling.

I should say “further igniting” however, as that morning, Louise’s daughter had done something she had never done before: she had drawn on the floor with a crayon. It is so hard when a new baby comes to stay… Isabel is a perfectly normal and very well behaved little angel… most of the time, but that morning it had all been too much and she had done something she knew would get a response… “I was so cross!” said Louise, in an exasperated tone. Louise did everything right from then on, taking Isabel out of the room to think about what she had done (and perhaps more importantly, to give Louise a chance to clean the offending mark off and calm down). “She apologised…” Louise said, but Isabel was evidently a little more offhand about the apology than Louise would have liked after such a huge and massively out of character calculated little attention getting stunt. I did try to explain that frankly any attention is better than nothing and to have mummy go fifteen shades of purple because there is now a large blue stripe across the floorboards, certainly beats being ignored whilst the delicious baby is being fed.

Apart from that minor hiccup, Isabel has adjusted well to her new brother’s arrival. “She does keep asking “Why?”, though,” said Louise. “When does that stop?” she asked me looking slightly deranged at the prospect of it going on much longer, like beyond the end of the week perhaps…

I tried to reassure her, but sitting there with her enjoying a coffee, I realised that my girls (9 and 7) still do the “why?” thing, and even better, they frequently ask The Ridiculous Question. I know that for most small people asking “Why?” is a way of interacting. Like the blue crayon used against the defenceless beautifully polished floorboard, it is a wonderful way to get attention. I can remember breast feeding number two whilst trying to explain to number one why the sky was blue. As I embarked on an illustrated visual guide to light refraction, drawing on the back of an envelope, clutching the baby under my armpit, I understood that she wasn’t actually listening. Nor did she really want to know the answer to the question. “Why?” was a way of getting my attention. I became THAT mother, at this point, and came up with pat answers to most of The Ridiculous Questions. For example, the ever faithful, pernennial favourite question: “Mummy, what’s for supper?” as I stand in the kitchen oven glove clad hands clasping a tray of fish fingers, illicits my favourite pat response: “Rat’s bottoms and chair-legs” My Northern friend, Sarah, tells her children that for supper they are having “Air pie and a walk around” when they ask, as her mother said to her. It is universal that mothers get sick of The Ridiculous Question and have to come up with some way of maintaining their sanity. “Mummy, why is that man fat?” (said loudly enough for the poor chubby chap to hear) “Mummy, why has that lady got a red dress on?” “Mummy, why are those children shouting?” “I don’t know, darling,” I say, “You’ll have to ask them.” It tends to stop them in their tracks and make them think for themselves. I am also probably damaging them irreparably by feigning interest when I am actually fobbing them off. It keeps me sane…

But fear not, they do get their own back: “Mummy, are those your pants?” (asked when I am hanging out a double sheet on the washing line to dry in the garden) got a slightly different response. As did: “Mummy, do you shave the fur off your face?” “No darling, mummies don’t have fur on their faces,” I said indulgently, “Just daddy’s have beards.” “No, Mummy,” said my perfect seven year old, “You have a beard too… I can see it” and then my all time favourite which involved a pincer movement from both girls (and so must be admired as at least they have the sense to work together): “Mummy, you know how the dog’s ears are all floppy and dangly?” asked one, “Yes, darling…” I said walking unthinkingly in to their trap. The other daughter said to the first as quick as a wink: “They’re just like mummy’s boobies, aren’t they?” They both agreed heartily and laughing left me standing naked in the bathroom. I trust that both my daughters will grow up with resilient, pneumatic breasts far superior to mine and that their pants are never mistaken for double bed sheets. In the mean time, I am off to cook them rat’s bottoms and chair legs again.