Bastian and I took a candlelit bubble bath together this evening. We ate rolos and talked at length. He took a great deal of time to observe my face mask, to point out the spots that were still wet and ask why they were wet. I told him there was so little water in the mixture that the heat from my body evaporated it, turning it into a gas, and leaving behind just the dried green clay. Then I told him not to touch it with his wet hands because it would wash it away.
We watched the candles flicker when the forced-air heat clicked on. When he snuffed them out later with a snuffer, I explained that the flames needed air to burn and that putting the snuffer over the wicks took away the air. He noted the liquid left in the candles and asked why there was water in them. I explained that it was melted wax because the candles were made of wax and that when the fire burned it melted it.
I'm certain that my explanations are incomplete or imperfect accounts of the exact science of things, but this is how we learn every day about the world we're in. This is what it looks like when you stop worrying about what one is supposed to be learning and just do what you do.