“Why would you kick a huge rock?!” (Excuse me if I don’t get you an ice pack for your stubbed toe.)
They never have a good answer. They say “I don’t know”.
Why do I keep asking?
The other day, hanging out with my son on the swings, I heard a mom call to her child in an I-am-not-happy voice. She said:
“Why did you come to the playground when I told you not to?” Then, get this, she corrected herself and said, “Never mind. The only good answer to that is ‘I’m sorry’ so just get your things and let’s go.”
And good golly, the girl got her stuff and they left. It was magical. I chased super mom down in the parking lot and tackled her with a big bear hug. (Daydreams can be awesome. And weird.)
I’ve caught myself asking my husband and parents this. It’s not really a question. Yet it’s not rhetorical because, at the time, I’m expecting some sort of explanation. Why do I continue to ask why?
My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.