So right now I am on this planet called Newbornia. Things are a little different here in Newbornia (or is it Newbornistan?). Something is rotten*, something’s not adding up. I recognize my surroundings, the furniture and the faces all seem familiar, but you would never catch me doing some of this stuff, therefore I’ve either died and gone to hell or I’m on another planet. I choose to believe the latter. The Rules and Social Conventions I’ve spent my entire life anxsessing about clearly don’t apply here. In this parallel universe the lights are fully on at 3am and you are frantically running and doing stuff around the house, and like two or sometimes three ships in the night you are spotting other aliens who are also frantically doing stuff around the house, all the while your body’s so spit uplicious and NONE of its parts are used for their original purpose, it seems like. There is a high likelihood of two appaling things hapenning (potentially simultaneously): you will at one point use cabbage – arguably the unsexiest of all vegetables – as an undergarment and brace yourselves – parade half naked in front of your mother in law – nough said.
So why did I title this post Things My Three Year Old Says, you ask? Because he’s the pilot of the space ship that brings me back for delightful visits on planet earth and here are some of the things he says and does during those stays:
B is very articulate and has a flair for the dramatic as most 3 year olds. He recenly figured out that addiding the word forever (with an exclamation mark) at the end of a sentence gives it more gravitas. The following sentences are a clear testament to that: “I will lift up this window for EVER!” or “wow, it’s a beautiful ring! (puts a key ring on my finger). Would you like to keep it on for a little bit FOREVER?” or “The enbuyer (?!) that’s known to see the truth in his buyers. And he dances like this FOREVER!”
He calls polka dots cocoa dots and instead of saying hickups he
says pick ups. One day he told me: mommy, I made a pickup!
Being the sociable extrovert he is he strikes up a conversation at the pediatrician’s office. He’s a self-taught small talk artist and therefore he first compliments a mother holding an infant just so he can say his piece and talk about what really bothers him. “I like your baby! (pontificating to the entire office) My baby’s name is D. Sometimes he looks for milk and can’t find it.” I, in the meantime, am shaking in my boots worrying that he is about to expose the intricate dynamics of boob finding that he’s been witnessing lately.
Mommy, I want you to tell me the story about the Pushy cat.
He has a wild imagination and plays a lot. Hello my princess, he approaches me. Hello my queen, he greets his grandmother. Hello my servant, he surprises his daddy.
Daddy is handsome and you’re just purdy.
I take off my red jeans. “Mommy. you still don’t look beautiful. But you look gorgeoused.” From the way he pronounces it, he clearly means it as a bad thing.
Daddy: B, mommy is a super hero. What is her special power? B: Milk. Good thing he wasn’t at the hospital when I delivered baby D and earned the attractive nickname Super Dialator.
B: Mommy I want a tire swing. Can we get one? Me: where would I get one? B: We break a tire from a car and then we tie a rope to it and hang it from a tree! Me: But what will the poor car do with only three wheels? B: We will break a tire from another car. Is that a fabulous idea?
And on one Zeny fall morning “Wind comes so the trees can talk to us!”.
Can I have dinner about Cheerios?
After watching a cartoon: Do you know the Pharaoh Witches? These guys were uglies back in the days of mummies.
I’ve started composing this post 2 weeks ago when baby Daniel was 6 weeks old. A lot has changed since. Sure enough, we are still sleepless ships in the night, mother in law has left thus rendering my forced peep show audienceless but our space ship now has an amazing co-pilot,baby Daniel. He smiles exposing his toothless grin and laughs when I respond with a “Hey!” to his “Eh!”. Oh and he can also say “gn”.
* It’s either the dirty diapers piled up on the floor or the spit upsoaked clothes (on me, of course)