Yesterday my son was in full on curious mode. A constant babble of “Mommy, look!”, “Mommy, watch trains?”, and “Mommy, what doing?” was the soundtrack. He asked me that last one so many times I finally turned and said, as evenly as possible through gritted, nerve-frayed teeth “Going crazy!”. He used that phrase for the next hour whenever my husband asked him what he was doing.
The night before, he was singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to himself in the back seat as we drove home from the grandparents. The lyrics went something like this; “Twinkle, Twinkle, How wonder, Up above”. Out of the blue, it was punctuated by a two-second pause, then a perfectly melodramatic “Ohhhh, God.”
We nearly peed ourselves laughing.
The repeated phrase of the last week or so is “No, Mommy!”. Even if its Daddy asking him to put his boots on, or go to his room, or if he wants more pasta. Even when he complies with the request, or shovels in the extra forkful, its still “No, Mommy.” If there is something out the window in the car he wants us to see, its “A car, Mommy! A train bridge, Mommy! A truck, Mommy! Follow the bus, Mommy!” I ask him if he wants to show Daddy the the train bridge and he looks at me and says “No, Mommy.” and points at it.
I’m hoping he switches to “Daddy” soon.
My son burped after dinner, so I asked him “What do we say when we burp?”. He looked at me, and with all sincerity he could muster, he said “Thank You!”. I said “No, we say Excuse me.” and he said “It OK Mommy, you ‘scused.”
I think we need to work on that one.
We were watching a video on Youtube a few weeks ago. It was a tractor making round bales of hay. As the tractor stopped, and the round bale appeared out of the clamshell baler, I was at a loss to answer the question of “What tractor doing, Mommy?” so I said, in my infinite parental wisdom, that the tractor was “pooping” the bale. My son pointed and exclaimed “Tractor pooping, Mommy! Tractor pooping!” every time after that, and I laughed at my genius and went with it, thinking it was a rather humorous association and harmless. Now, every time we drive by a field filled with round bales, a tiny voice from the back seat pipes up and says “Poop bales, Mommy! Poop bales!”.
I don’t have the heart to correct him.
When my son wakes up in the morning, the mantra is “Daddy? Mommy? Daddy! Daddy! Dad-Dy! Mom-My! MOMMY! HI you! HI YOU!” getting progressively louder and more insistent until one of us drags their sorry carcasses out of bed and opens his door. Upon our appearance, he hold up his CHEO bear and exclaims “I have a bear!”, and promptly drops himself back to the bed.
He’s better than an alarm clock.