the letter why

Before I had kids, I would dream of magical afternoons spent in sunbeams, counting piggies and answering questions.
Mama, why is the sky blue? Where do unicorns come from? Can I go to the moon?
I was anxious to answer these questions. I couldn't wait to tell my children about narwhals and bats and elephants who are reunited with their friends after twenty years. I couldn't wait for the WHY stage, as they call it.
Joke's on me, right?
Because they don't ask reasonable, magical, practical questions. They spend two excruciating hours asking in different ways why you have to paint the house.
Here are just a tiny fraction of the questions shouted at me today:
1. Mommy, why is THAT GUY?
2. Why did somebody fall off the roof?
3. Where did that tree go?
4. Where did this (a minute piece of trash) come from?
5. Why is outside?
6. If my teacher isn't married anymore, why did she tell me to give her a present?
7. If a bad guy comes in the house, can I kick him?
8. Why can't you make more batteries?
9. If that girl can have candy, does her mommy love her more than you love me?

Seriously. I'm going insane.
But it makes sense. Childhood isn't linear. It's confusing. Kids are trying to make sense of a huge world that we adults can barely comprehend. So why would the questions be easy? At least they're asking questions, and I'm doing my best to answer them.
And at least no one has yet asked me where babies come from.
*
Disclaimer: For the love of all that's holy, DON'T BE THAT PERSON who tells me:
a) how brief childhood is, and to enjoy every moment,b) that answering questions/caring for kids is my job as a mother, orc) that I was probably just as curious at that age and am now being repaid by karma.
I KNOW, okay? We're good. I'm just venting.