five stinking thirty

"Mommy?"

"Mommy?" came the whisper again from the foot of the bed, the place where Abi crawls in at some silent unknown moment of the night, to a pillow that waits for her there.

"Huh?" I grunted, half asleep. She recognized this as the questioning grunt, akin to, 'What is it, my dear?'

"Mommy, how do cows get milk?"
"Wha-?!"

"How do COWS get MILK?" she whispered again.

Processing is slow. She knows milk comes from cows, and now she wonders how cows get it. I glance at the bedside clock. It's five stinking thirty in the morning (yes, I think the clock actually said 5:stinking30).

Seriously? We're to get into a discussion of mammary glands and bodily changes hormonally instigated by the onset of generating offspring at five stinking thirty in the morning?

I have come to handle the line of questioning I normally receive at that time of day while remaining half asleep.

"Mommy, can I go play dress-up?"
"Uh-huh."

"Mommy, I'm hungry."
"Luna Bar"

By now, she has been known to just slip out, get dressed into something grossly inadequate for a Colorado winter, help herself to something edible, and apparently set small bombs off in her room until sometimes close to seven.

But this morning? Cows?

Alright. I should be proud, right? Pleased that my four year old daughter has such a curious mind, asks questions, doesn't blindly accept or take things for granted. I should be excited that she's so smart, and leap into instruction, guidance, and encouragement.

"Mommy?"
"SHHHHH! Be still! Be quiet! I'll tell you later."

New family rule: Nothing more substantial than primitive grunts until at least six o'clock.