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
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