Jasmine's Place Issue No. 9 - January/February 2014 - Page 35

As soon as Darci started talking, we nicknamed her "the question box." Her questions came like gunfire and I believe I only survived the preschool years because my mom prayed me through. There was no topic off limits to Darci. As the question box dominated our coffee table, Bob and I realized the questions were relentless. Life experience gave her a lot to ponder. As she struggled through middle school, the question box was overflowing each week. "Can I stay up all night?" "What made you think I wanted a baby brother? " "Do raccoons have bad breath?" "Mama, do all mommies have stretchy marks when they're naked like you?" "Why are people so mean? I don't get it. I never would've said the mean things to Jen she said to me." "Am I pretty? I don't think I am. " Those gems came to me her early elementary years. As Darci learned to read and write, she came home from art class one day with a decorated box. "Do I really need algebra? I'm going to be a reporter. Who needs math when they plan to be on television? I'm confused. " When her dad asked what it was, she thrust the box forward into his hands. Pink foam question marks stuck to his thumb. "It's a question box daddy. When we have questions we write them out and put them in. Mr. Stewart said that once a week we could talk about the questions. Whaddya think?" Bob shrugged. We promised each other when we married we'd always be available to our kids, especially if they had questions. We embraced Darci's enthusiasm as brightly as her decorated box. JASMINE'S PLACE 35