Whas Dat?

Brandon has entered the "What's that?" phase, otherwise known as the prelude to the "Why" phase, which means that a minimum of a year of true insanity is imminent.

Pray/raindance/think good thoughts/chant/hope for us. This is a glimpse into about 90 seconds of Brandon hanging out in the bathroom with me while I put on my makeup:

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: My makeup brush.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: Mascara.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: Eye shadow.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: My glasses.
B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?
Me: My curling iron.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: My contacts case. [Sigh. Patience, Elizabeth. He's learning.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: The counter.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: The sink.

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: The mirror. [I swear, you know this shit, Brandon.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: Soap. [He's learning he's learning he's learning. He's learning. Patience. Because he's fucking learning.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: I just told you. My mascara. [Oh, you don't remember, seven thousand questions later?]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: The FLOOR. [I KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT THE FLOOR IS.]
B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?
Me: The bathtub. [YOU KNOW WHAT THAT IS, TOO!]
B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?
Me: THE TOILET. [AND THAT.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: A CANDLE. [SEVERE impatience is setting in.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: Thaaaaaaa faaaaauCET. [I AM A HORRIBLE PERSON, AN EVEN WORSE MOTHER.]

B (pointing to ____): Whas dat?

Me: MY SANITY FLYING OUT THE WINDOW. SMILE AND WAVE BYE BYE! BYE BYE, SANITY!

Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to the burgeoning curiosity in my child; it means that all of his circuits are working correctly in his brain and who could possibly be opposed to that? I'm never opposed to education and learning, but that doesn't mean that I'm some Patience Superhero that can repeatedly tolerate hearing "Whas dat?" forty-five times in a three-minute period - with the asker maintaining a clear expectation of an answer - and not want to lose my shit.

It's especially exasperating when he's asking "Whas dat" and I KNOW he knows what it is. Because I'm a really good mom and person (sarcasm, people), at times when my patience is especially short and it's the ninety-fifth "whas dat" in seven minutes, it's hard to refrain from screaming, "It's a fucking garbage can! A GARBAGE CAN, GOD DAMN IT! YOU KNOW THIS!" and then crumpling into a heap on the floor, rocking back and forth with my hands over my ears.

Dramatic, I know, but Brandon is kid number three, which means that I've been through this twice before, and no, that doesn't make me stronger, it means that I'm frayed and on the edge and lost my mind long ago, maybe around kid #2 or perhaps even #1... who remembers anymore? So it sucks for Brandon because it means that I'm a mere shell that has had most of the life sucked out of me by the preceding children just a touch drained. And so the dawn of the "Whas dat" phase has filled me with a large amount of horror, because I know the hell that is coming, instead of being smacked in the face with it like I was the first kid around.

Sometimes, I think that it's worse to know it's coming.

Anyway, I am determined to ride out this phase, and somehow muster up the ability to get though the coming "Why" phase and not repeatedly stab myself with a dull butter knife, not even to mention the "threes." Yeah. That. I love how people mention how awful two-year-olds are, and all I can think is, Well, clearly this is their first kid because they don't even know what's coming when that kid hits three!

And I just got an idea to make a graph for how suicidal/homicidal/insane parents become for each year of their child's age, up to age five, because I am phenomenal at graph-making. (Hint: the future graph will look like the boob profile of a woman laying on her back, with the age three being the nipple/peak and the "kill me/kill you/commit me point.) So, look forward to that. But don't hold your breath because I don't know when I'll actually get to it. 

If ever. I'm currently too busy answering "Whas dat" questions. A fart, Brandon. That's what "dat" was, a fart, out of your own butthole. Otherwise known as a "fur" to you.