When our son, Boaz, was four, he was sitting chatting to me one evening.

“I can hear an owl,” he said.

Dubious, I replied: “I think that’s a woodpigeon.”

“Do you get them in Finchley?” he asked.

“Woodpigeons yes, owls no,” I explained.

He was puzzled. “How do the owls know?”

“I said, ‘Owls, no.’”

“But how do they know?”

“How do they know what?”

“Whether there are woodpigeons in Finchley?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

Boaz thought for a moment. “Maybe they can see from their trees.”

“Yes, maybe,” I said, weakly.

And thus, as so often happens when talking to my children, I found myself trapped in a seemingly endless exchange of questions and answers, where every further explanation seemed to obscure the truth rather than reveal it.

This sensation of being stuck down a rabbit hole, with no apparent way out, seems to be an intrinsic feature of parenthood that you don’t read about in, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Questions that should have a simple answer generate more questions, and yet more. Activities that should be brief and self contained feel open-ended and infinite.

Frequently when my children were smaller, I would hear eight words that filled me with nihilistic despair: “Please will you come and watch our show?”

This usually happened when one or other of them had a friend round to play, and they chose to spend the time together, with the help of our box of dressing-up clothes, devising a play to perform to any adults unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity.

I know what my response should have been to this situation: “How wholesome! How creative! What a beautiful use of their young imaginations!” And indeed, if I wasn’t forced to watch the result, then that would have been my attitude. But the shows always had two features in common: they had no discernible plot, and they never — ever — came to an end. The only way to make them stop was to wait for a suitable pause, and then applaud enthusiastically. Without that, there are shows that my children embarked on five years ago that would probably still be going on.

If you are an impatient type like me, then however much you love your children, there are so many ways they can make you feel stuck — in conversations, in activities, in places…

Public toilets, for example. In common, I think, with most adults, if I go into a public toilet I want to get out again as quickly as possible, because there’s pretty much anywhere else I’d rather be. When my children were small, however, I’d regularly have the feeling they had established themselves in there for the rest of the day.

“Can I try locking the door?” they’d say. And, “Ooh look — the tap comes on without you touching it! You try, Mummy!” And, “I’m going to throw my paper towel in the bin. Oops, missed. I’ll try again.” It’s like they thought they were in a bleedin’ theme park.

And then there are all the times they want you to watch them do something. “Mummy,” they’ll say. “Please will you watch me… [insert here anything from showing off a new ball skill to leaping across the room in a certain way]”.

“I will later,” I’ll say. “I don’t have time right now.”

“Pleeeease,” they’ll say. “It’s really, really quick!”

“Ok,” I’ll sigh.

They’ll then do “the thing”, whatever it may be — but it won’t work.

“That wasn’t it,” they’ll say. “I’ll try again.” So they try again.

“Nope — that wasn’t it.”

And again… And again…

Of course, this attitude makes me, without a doubt, a terrible mother. I should be guiding and encouraging my offspring with love and patience and a total focus on their development and wellbeing. But alas, I am human — and my kids just have to live with that fact.
To be fair, there are many moments where even I cannot complain. Recently at breakfast, apropos nothing in particular, my daughter Emily recited a few lines from Jabberwocky. Her big brother, Isaac, immediately responded with the next two lines.

Then Isaac looked at me, quizzically. “We’re the children you always dreamed of, aren’t we?” he said. “Reciting Lewis Carroll at the breakfast table.”

“Well… you are sometimes,” was my reply.

Reflecting on the owl v. woodpigeon conversation, it suddenly occurred to me that I know next to nothing about birds — maybe Finchley is home to an owl population. I posed the question to my rabbi, Jonathan Wittenberg, because in this, as in so many other matters, he is the expert. “Yes!” came his immediate response.

So, Boaz, you may well have heard an owl all those years ago. Though if you did, it probably wouldn’t have known whether there are wood-pigeons in Finchley.

@susanreuben