When Your Kid Comes Home with Big Questions

So before we jump in, let me just say what this blog is going to be. This is not me showing up as the mom who has it all together and definitely remembers everything from science class and always knows exactly what to say when her kids ask deep questions. This is more like the conversations we all end up having in the parking lot after church, or on voice memo to a friend, or over iced coffee when we’re comparing notes on what our kids said this week that made us laugh… and also quietly panic.

The truth is, our kids are going to come home with big questions, and half the time we’re going to be holding a half-made sandwich when it happens.

For example, today.

My four-year-old, Evie (who does not even like dinosaurs) woke up apparently ready to host a prehistoric press conference. She looked me dead in the eyes and asked if humans and dinosaurs lived at the same time:

“Did they live together?”
“Did they see each other?”
“Did they eat snacks together?”

I’m standing there with a peanut butter knife in one hand and a piece of toast in the other, trying to decide if I should answer like a normal person or just fake a phone call and walk away.

Before I could even put together a sentence that sounded remotely intelligent, she pivoted (because four-year-olds do not transition, they teleport). 

She asked where water comes from and why it falls down instead of up, and suddenly I am explaining the water cycle and gravity in my kitchen like I’m Bill Nye, except my only visual aid is a cup of water, a mixing bowl, and my own fading confidence.

And I felt that familiar pressure that sneaks in when your kid asks something you didn’t prepare for. You know the feeling. The one that says you should know the answer, and you should know it immediately, and you should say it perfectly, and if you don’t, you might ruin everything forever.

But she wasn’t asking for a TED Talk. She was simply inviting me into her curiosity. She wanted a safe place to wonder out loud, and she assumed I was the person for the job. Which is both sweet and, honestly, a lot.

This is exactly what we talk about in Raising the Remnant—especially in the chapter on Equipping. 

When we say “equip,” we don’t mean you need to become an expert in everything your child might ask between now and adulthood. 

We mean you’re helping them to know who are safe spaces to ask their questions and to feel empowered to seek out answers. 

Sometimes equipping looks like opening Scripture. Sometimes it looks like grabbing a book. Sometimes it looks like saying, “I actually don’t know, but let’s figure it out together,” and then doing exactly that.

If our kids learn early that questions are welcome, they’re far more likely to bring us the bigger ones later. 

Those dinosaur questions turn into identity questions faster than any of us would like, and if we can stay calm and kind and present now, we’re building trust for what comes next.

So no, you don’t have to be an expert in dinosaurs, gravity, the water cycle, or the entire internet. You just have to be the safe place where curiosity is allowed, and try to be the bridge to good resources when you don’t have the answer. 

That is parental discipleship too, even if it happens while you’re making lunch.

Also, if anyone needs me, I will be re-learning middle school science tonight, because I have a feeling Evie is going to circle back in the morning and I would like to be slightly less tongue-tied and slightly more correct.