Here is an old story from 2004, when Younger was not quite five and thought if he persisted long enough he would get the answer he wanted:
On the days that I work, I leave the apartment, drive across town to the school, wish Elder a good day and push him from the car. I then turn around, drive back across town then hit the highway that will eventually lead us to the smaller highway that will eventually take us to the gravel road that will eventually carry us to my sister’s house.
So, the other day, Younger, already squirming in his seat, asked, “Are we halfway to my aunt’s house yet?”
We had only just delivered Elder to the school. “No,” I answered.
“Halfway, Mommy. Are we halfway to my aunt’s house yet?”
“No, Younger, we are not.”
“Halfway, Mommy. Halfway. Are we halfway to my aunt’s house yet?”
“No,” I answered for the third time, my voice climbing in decibel. “We are not.”
He hesitated only a moment before demanding rather sullenly, “Do you even know what halfway is?”
I passed the halfway marker to insanity when that child learned to talk.