My daughter is right. I ask too many questions. Half the time I don’t even wait for answers. I even did it when I picked her up for Easter break:
Are you ready to go? Are you all packed? Is your roommate still here?
She answers by walking me down the hall to her dorm room. She starts to pack and I observe that her roommate has already left.
Are you feeling better? Did you take your medicine? Did you pack that too?
She answers all three questions by smiling as she hands me her little tote of meds.
Did you change your sheets? Do you want to take them home? Do you have other laundry to do?
She points to her overstuffed Vera Bradley laundry bag in the corner and starts to roll her bedding. I tie it all together and put it next to the meds and her backpack as I continue our conversation:
Did you finish your registration the other day? Were you able to get into all your classses? What are you taking in the Fall?
She pulls out the chair to her desk, I think to sit me out of the way, and hands me her schedule.
Is the dining hall still open? Did you eat after work? Do you want to stop on the way home?
Like her Dad is listening, I get a text that he’ll have dinner ready when we get home.
Why is your purse slung in front of you? Are you going to try to carry all this? How about if we make two trips?
I finally get two words to my 18 questions:
I’m just excited to see her and know that she’ll be home for the week.
I calm down as we start our first walk to the car.
Do you want to put your coat on? Hey, why are you taking that path? Will you wait for me to catch up?
I know she was just excited for our road trip. We had a lot to talk about. I think I thought of a few more questions on the way home.