This gig is really causing me to question my intelligence. I'm just not sure I'm smart enough to answer the non-stop barrage of questions. I mean, fuck, this lil' man thinks I have the answer for everything. I like to think that I know a little about a lot, but Jesus! Tonight it was fingernails, seems simple enough, right? You've got ten of them, one on each finger, they protect your fingers, they grow and you cut them, they get dirt under them and you clean them. Seems simple enough. But what do you tell a two year old when he asks, "Where do fingernails come from?" Fucked if I know. Do you know?
Anyway, I'm not a fucking biologist and I couldn't provide an answer. AND I've also learned that giving half-ass answers only inspires more difficult questions. Fortunately, the wifey was around to break the silence—she chimed in and said, "They come from your fingers." Yeah, no shit! This simplistic response certainly didn't answer the question for me, and I'm pretty freakin' sure the lil' man wasn't satisfied either. So ... where do fingernails come from?
Perhaps this is when God emerges as the answer to our individual deficiencies of knowledge. So ... "Where do fingernails come from?" Ummm. From God, silly. Damn! That was easy. I didn't have to think about it. I didn't have to feel dumb. I didn't have to use Google. Ahem. My job just got a whole lot easier.
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