While I was trying to make dinner last night, on a day when I was in the midst of amassing more miles than a Boston cab driver on a good night, I kept getting bombarded with questions by my offspring, as usual. We were having tortellini with homemade alfredo sauce, which takes all of about twenty minutes to make, but their little enquiring minds still demanded answers.

These questions included, but were not limited to:

“What’s my email address?”

“Why doesn’t my email work?”

“What was the last battle of the Revolutionary War?”

“Are you sure it was Yorktown?” (No, I wasn’t.) “I thought it was Bunker Hill. Wasn’t it Bunker Hill?” (No, it wasn’t Bunker Hill. Go look it up.)

“Why can’t I get the confirmation to the game website on my email? I can’t play until I do.”

“Can you come look at my email, Mom?”

“In colonial times, would blacksmiths have been rich?”

“Would they have been as rich as silversmiths?”

“What show is that song from?”

And my favorite, from Echidna Boy, who’s all of ten:

“Mom, what’s the plot to Les Miz?”

The Not-So-Little-Drummer Boy had only one question, in keeping with his teenage priorities: “What’s for dinner?”

At least that one I didn’t have to think about to be able to answer.

And they wonder why I look so harassed all the time.

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