Yeah

When you ask her if she knows something, and she says "Yeah," she doesn't really know. It seems counterintuitive that a child would say yes for something and actually not know the answer. In my moments of grandeur, when I've decided that she is the smartest of all two year olds who have ever existed since the beginning of time, including Einstein, I like to believe that her answer of "yeah" means that she does, in fact, know the answer, but is having difficulty drawing out the information due to the vast amount of knowledge with which her overly stuffed two year old brain is currently dealing. For instance, a conversation might transpire:
"Do you know what that is?" A long index finger points lazily towards the easily identifiable raccoon atop a stone wall in one of her books that we have read over three hundred forty two and a half times.
She stares at it for a moment and says,"Yeah."
I start to sit up in my chair. We have discussed the raccoon in this story several times, at least eighty nine times. We have gone over the fact that they are one of the few animals, possibly the only animal, that actually washes its food prior to eating it. I don't believe they wash their food all of the time. In the wild, of course, there is ready access to streams and the like, but the local neighborhood fare with the locked spigots makes cleanlinesses trying at times. She has nodded at me, prior to this moment, when I've stated that they are nocturnal. I've identified for her the mask like markings on their faces, which often leads to their representation as thieves in cartoons and the like. Even now, right here in this very book, they are described as the "thieves on the garden wall." She must know. My index finger becomes stern and enthusiastic. "Tahlia," I repeat. "What are those."
Again, the sagacious eyes peer into the book. Hoping to decode the elusive riddle I have currently posed before her. I'm looking for a simple word. I don't desire a sentence. I've heard her recite entire passages from memory. In one of her favorite books, Scarface Claw, by Lynley Dodd, when you open the first page, the words are catapulted from her mouth: "Who is the roughest and toughest of cats? Fiendish of eye and wicked of paw is mighty magnificent Scarface Claw." Turn the page and she continues: "Scaredy cats tremble and people all shout when ever this tomcat is out and about." Well, you get the idea. How, then, is it possible that she does not know this one word. Then, finally, an answer, "Yeah."
I believe the answer is in there. When she was younger, I would press and press until she would turn away to discover that her big T-Rex was currently playing with a wooden block containing a butterfly. Now, I understand when her complicated mind has decided not to play with Daddy. I give her the answer. "It's a raccoon."
I don't belabor the point. I don't discuss their cunning and dexterity. I just turn the page to see the streets and fields, and we move on.
But moving on is what she is doing more quickly than we believe. Just starting yesterday, "yeah" is starting to become a thing of the past, replaced by the all too common, "I don't know."
Now, her "I don't know," is far more adorable than the one that she will present to us when she is sixteen when we ask how she has missed curfew. In a high pitched voice the words slip from her mouth, an air of question and eagerness for an answer. And quickly, we give her what she wants, answers.