Conversations with BC
First, we love you. Of course.
However, we can no longer abide the conniption fits that seem to randomly happen at the worst possible moments during the day. For example, three minutes before school departure is not the ideal time to be having a hissy about socks, or whether the sleeve on your coat is inside out, or if you didn’t get what you wanted for breakfast, because I was supposed to simply know that you wanted toast through my magical ability to read your mind.
Unfortunately, I have not been blessed with the “read your mind” talent. Perhaps a different mother could have provided that for you, but alas, you’re stuck with me.
So, it’s become clear to us, your loving SubRents (parents), to make the lines of what YOU control, and what WE control a *tad* more clear. I’m sorry it’s come to this. Apparently you need some kind of chart. Today, anyway. Tomorrow, who knows?
Please examine the two columns. We’ll help you read them. To the left: what you get to choose. To the right: what we get to choose. Please make a note of it.
Hopefully this will clear up any confusion as to who decides what, and when. Contrary to what you may think, we, your loving parents, ARE still in charge of this whole operation.
Not me, although I have been known to drop an F-bomb occasionally.
No, it’s Boy.
How many four year olds do know say things like, “What the ?” (insert silence normally reserved for the F-word.)
He’s four. It’s not me, I promise!
At his swimming lesson this week, he called me a “butthead.” He had no idea that it was insulting, because he had the look on his face that said, “I wonder what this sounds like out loud?” But still. HE’S FOUR.
He’s on a slippery swearing slope.
“Mama, you have whiskers. I found whiskers.” Fantastic. (NOTE: ON MY FACE, PEOPLE. Dirty minds. And by the way – I DO NOT have them. That’s what tweezers are really for.)
“I’M LEAVING! YOU SITNKY POOPOO MEANIE BOOBIE PEEPEE!” (And proceeds to walk out the door and down the street while I’m on the phone with SubHub after a full 30 minutes of screaming, yelling, and him throwing his shoes at me and unbuckling his car seat. While I was driving. Best.Day.EVER!)
“Mommy! I have an owie on my butt! Look!” (bends over, butt in my face, basically.)
Speaking of butts, a lovely weekend breakfast was interrupted by a mini-fight in which Girl Child, playing little mommy, says, “Hands out of your pants! We’re eating!” To which Boy Child replied by pulling down his underwear completely and hanging his sister a B.A.
“Smell my hands, Mommy.” *sniff* “Have they been in your pants?” “Yep!” Gah.
So, there is a theme developing: fascination with potty talk.
This is the sign, plastered with tape, on my front door. We’ve left it there because really, he SHOULD come with a warning.
(Translation: “Beware of Ryan’s potty mouth words which are stinky, poopoo and peepee.”)
So, BC’s language skills have taken a giant leap in the last few months, as well as his imagination. Here’s what he told me today getting out of the car:
BC: Mommy, I’m eighteen now.
SM: Really? Eighteen, huh?
BC: Yep. Eighteen.
SM: Wow, honey. I thought you were three.
BC: Oh yeah. That’s right. I’m three.
My son isn’t just a boy. He’s a guy.