It's not "why?" or "where do babies come from?" or "can I make poop in the bathtub?"
Those are easily answered and remedied, taking, if you are efficient and tactful, a minute or so. (Or if you are just good at leaving the approximate area of the question-asker--even less.)
It's not, "can I have a snack?" when I have nothing to offer or "who's that man in my room?" (wow. I'm seriously demented).
Here's a clue:
Oh, that looks fun, right? Trucks and trailers and imaginations running wild. Some singing, lots of truck sounds. Quality time, awesome mom-points, learning-through-play. What a riot.
Here's my most dreaded question: "Mama, will you play with me?"
(Oh, Kelley. Are you serious? You are such a jerk.)
Let me be clear. I like playing under the following circumstances:
1. I can lay down and move my hands around and make a few sounds and it's enough to meet the requirements.
2. We play with animals or dinosaurs.
3. I am able to chase, tickle, wrestle, or otherwise squeeze Brixton.
4. I don't have to follow directions, especially those of a very orderly and commanding (almost) 3 year old.
5. I will play doctor all day long, as long as I am the patient and I am sadly in a deep coma.
My nemesis is exactly what you see in the photo. Trucks. Semi-trucks. Tractors. Flat-bed trucks. Bulldozers. Not only am I bored out of my mind by this type of play, I try to avoid it at all costs. I would rather clean toilets and cat throw-up then sit and play trucks. In part because it involves:
1. The assigned truck. I am not allowed to pick out my own toy. Usually I am handed
standard flat-bed truck with no bells and whistles and told to
perform. Any attempt of mine to change my fate results in yelling,
tears, anger, and very clear threats to my safety.
2. Always touching my assigned truck and making it move. If my hand happens to reach up and scratch my nose or lose contact with my truck in any way, I am immediately reprimanded.
3. Whilst playing with my bottom-of-the-barrel truck, I must always use my "truck-voice" as a representation of the personality of the truck. Except my truck isn't allowed to have the deep, gravely, tough voice you might associate with a heavy duty road warrior. No, my truck is commanded to have what Brixton calls, "The Tiny Voice." Like a mouse. No exceptions.
4. The trucks will be playing in a very specific scenario that is not only completely uncommunicated to me, but also can change within a millisecond. For example, if the trucks are working together loading hay, and then my hand turns into a helpful crane or other implement, loud protesting will occur. I will then be informed we are actually not loading hay, but coal. And I'm not allowed to load any, I am only allowed to gather trash that may never be dumped out. Ever.
5. The minimum time commitment that fulfills Brixton's play needs seems to be about 17 hours and 43 minutes. Ain't nobody got time fo' dat.
When he's 5 or 6, I'll just send him outside with a timer watch like my parents did for me. "Be home 5 minutes from the beep!" They said, sending me out into a forest filled with miners, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and poisonous berries. "We have two more," they'd say to each other, just in case.
Okay, back to the cat puke.