What's with the Sticks!?

Have you ever noticed that children must play with sticks? Why is that? It seems The Lollygagger finds a way to obtain a stick whenever she's outside. And, on occasion, she manages to smuggle them inside.
Every time we go for a walk, the Lollygagger finds a stick and either uses it: A) as a cane, thus hunching her back like a little old lady, B) like a fishing pole, dipping it in the dirt, water, a pile of rocks, a cluster of grass, or oddly enough, a tree branch, C) like a broom to either sweep the dirt or ride it like a witch, or D) to poke her poor mother in the butt with it every chance she gets.

So, I ask myself, I say "Self, what's the deal with the stick?" and I get no reply. Which I guess is a good thing.

Did I ever have an incurable, insatiable need to find the most annoying object on the ground and irritate my mother with it when I was her age? No. I don't think I did. I don't remember ever going for walks.

Did I ever play without limits to my imagination, and find so many ways to entertain myself with a stick? No. I can't remember ever having an imagination.

Here's what I do remember. We lived not far from a small swamp. The last of its kind in our part of the Country. With encroaching development inching its way across the state, we enjoyed it like it was our personal playground. I caught frogs and tadpoles and stuffed my pockets full. Then forgot they were there by the time I got home. I'm fairly certain my mother had to know they were there when she did the laundry, but she never said much about it.

So, do I let her have her brand of fun and never let on what I think about sticks, or do I act on my impulses and snap it in two when she pokes my butt with it? Hmmm, the moral dilemma.

I suppose I can tolerate a stick. At least she doesn't swing it like a bat. No, she just whacks the heck out of the dirt.

Sticks make her happy. So, I'm happy.