Some whys, I can handle. I can explain why the trees are coated in ice, why this soap won’t hurt your eyes. Why the moon is full, and what ‘full’ means. Why you should look at the person talking to you. Why you should never, ever use that tone of voice with your mother.
Logic, curiosity, acuity. These are wonderful traits. Good, great. Now, let’s talk about discernment.
happily tell you that this is apple juice. I will not tell you why. If you want to know why Paul’s going home, that’s fine. Why is this his home? That’s okay, too. But don’t, for your health and mine, ask me why he lives there.
If my and your mother’s patience and good will are such that we deem a trip to the naughty step unnecessary, don’t ask questions. Grace is a wonderful thing. The same holds true for not having to go to bed, or take a bath, or eat your broccoli. Sleeping dogs, gift horses, Fates. All true.
Here’s the thing. I spend eight hours each day apart from you, in an office where people ask—generally—logical and reasonable questions. Your mother stays with you, and also teaches twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. Lately, I fear for her sanity, and for your life.
Please, if you truly love me and your mother, please: be quiet.