Questions

Kids like to ask questions. My two most inquisitive kids are Danielle and JoAnn.

I have moles on my neck. Not gross ones, just..moles. Danielle is obsessed with my moles. And my freckles. I have lots of those as well as the few scattered moles on my neck.

If Danielle is in my lap or looking at me close-up, she will inevitably point to a mole and ask "Mmmmmmmmmmwazzis?" I say, "A mole." She responds, "A moleh." Well, no, it's more drawn out. Like "Moooooooooooleh." She continues to point to all of the moles, knowing I will say "mole" and giving her the opportunity to say "moooooleh."

Then she moves to the freckles. She points to a spot on my arm. "Mmmmwazzis?" I tell her, "A freckle." Her response: "A preckle." Hilarity and repetition ensue until I get frustrated or she gets bored and she moves on to something else.

Jo's questions are just as worthy of Captain Obvious's pantaloons and pointed hat, but they are for some reason more annoying to me.

"Miss Caitlin, what's on your shirt?"
"A butterfly."
"Is it a butterfly?"
"Yes, Jo. It's a butterfly."

If wearing an apron with children emblazoned on the front, she asks, "What's their names?"

LIKE I KNOW. THEY ARE NONEXISTANT CARTOON CHILDREN. WHY MUST YOU ASK STUPID QUESTIONS???

"I don't know, Jo. They're just kids on the apron."

Doing a puzzle, Jo held up a puzzle piece that clearly depicted Esmerelda's (from the Hunchback of Notre Dame) hands.
"Miss Caitlin, are these her hands?"
"Jo, do they look like her hands?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you asking me if those are her hands?"
"Miss Caitlin, these are her hands."
No shit, sherlock.