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Growing up, my dad just always knew stuff. From how to change a tire, the principles of the Pythagorean Theorem, the nesting habits of the Great Horned Owl, to where I put my basketball shoes—nothing stumped him. No matter what question I rattled off, he simply knew the answer—every answer, all the time. This recently got me thinking…As a parent, there are plenty of things I simply don’t know. In fact, the amount of information I don’t know vastly exceeds the sum of the information I do know. Incidentally, that might be might be some kind of algebraic equation—only I wouldn’t know it!

I mean, sure, now it’s not really that urgent an issue, since Avery’s current quest for knowledge is limited to pointing at various inanimate objects for me to name: shoe, elbow, fork, trash can. And these objects are well within my vernacular. I’ll admit I do occasionally get stumped by the odd animal noise. What does a camel say? In which case, I pretend it’s an odd-shaped horse, neigh and turn the page. (We have to leave some things for the teachers, right?) Still, I’m confident I have a pretty firm command on all things found in an 18-month-old’s lexicon. However, it’s only a matter of time until he not only wants to know what sound that camel makes, but why some have one hump instead of two? And what if I’m driving and can’t Google it, like I just did, to find out? My dad never had Google. If he wanted the answers he walked ten miles, barefoot in the snow, uphill both ways to find out! Only he didn’t need to, because he just knew.

I had a small taste of what was in store for me, while driving the other day with my friend and her Australian husband. Although I tend to view Australians as basically Americans in leather jackets, with charming accents and ruggedly handsome good looks, there actually are some differences in our two countries. For example, Adam was most intrigued by the idea that beers could be kept cold outside in the winter, “thongs” had another connotation other than flip flops and the Water Tower.

“What are those?” He asked when we drove past the bulbous structure, looming over the highway.

“Water Towers,” we announced proudly. It was our duty, nay our pleasure, to educate Adam in all things American. Those crazy Aussies. What would he say next?

“Why do you keep your water in towers?”

We drove a moment in silence, neither one of us prepared for the grave implications of such a question. Doesn’t everyone keep their water in towers? It’s just where we keep it. You keep your money in the bank, dishes in the cupboard and water goes in the towers! It’s just what’s done. Next thing you know, he’ll be asking what those odd cone shaped structures are that you pass every now and then on the highway—that are obviously used to store…things, like telephone wires. Or grain. I decided to let Erica handle this one. It was her nosy husband after all.

Turns out, she was just as blissfully ignorant as I was. And with their own baby on the way, they could no longer afford to disregard these important issues, along with others like how to change the refrigerator filter or how Congress works. It was like Adam was our very own walking, talking toddler, foreshadowing just how crucial information like this would soon become.

To solve this perplexing mystery, I called the one person I know who knows everything.

“Dad, why do we keep our water in towers?”

So, apparently, we store our water in towers because it only takes a small motor to pump it up there, then with the resulting pressure that’s built storing it that way, we are able to supply water efficiently to surrounding areas when it’s released. Or something like that. (You’re welcome.)

It got me thinking that perhaps it might be beneficial to expand my nightly reading beyond Duck on a Bike and Spot Throws a Party—two of Avery’s faves. Although I have to admit, Duck on a Bike is pretty good, it couldn’t hurt to do some extra-curricular reading, a history chapter or two—maybe brush up on some geography and state capitals—in anticipation of Avery’s expanding sponge-like brain.

But of course, there’s always the old failsafe. “Why don’t we ask Grandpa?” Because, if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Grandpa has the answer. Even if I don’t, and never will, know what X equals.

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