The Interrogation

Or, Questions I Was Asked While Putting on My Makeup for Church Yesterday:
Mama, how tall are you?
How tall is Daddy?
How much taller is he than you?
What's an inch?
How tall are you going to be when you're 40?
Why is Dad so tall?
Why is he taller than you if you're older than him?
What is a pound?
What is an ounce?
How much does an ounce weigh?
How many inches are in an ounce?
How do you know?
How come the water in the deep end of the pool is only up to Daddy's chin?
Why are men taller than women?
Am I going to be taller than you when I grow up?
But how will I be taller than you if you're older than me?
How old will you be when I'm 12?
What about when I'm 10?
How old do you have to be to be a grown up?
How tall am I going to be when I'm 20?
Why are you not allowed to jump in the corner of the swimming pool?
How old do you have to be to wear diapers?
Is a one year old taller than a potty? But why?
Why?
How do you know?
Why?

I know now why I never became a CIA agent. All the enemy would have to do to get information from me is to send in a five year old to pepper me with questions. Within three minutes, I would crack like an egg: "Please, I'll tell you whatever you want to know...just make it stop...please...for the love of God, no more questions!"

And yes, I know what you're thinking, the child is clearly on his way to becoming a mathematical genius. I just hope that when he accepts his Nobel prize, he will remember to thank his mother for teaching him so much about weights and measurements while she was putting on makeup.