As my kids grow older, they make fewer statements and ask fewer questions that shock me or require me to stifle a laugh. I still have no idea what will come out of their seven-and-a-half-year-old and five-year-old mouths, but for the most part they keep it clean and appropriate and grammatically correct.
For the most part.
 |
| I couldn't resist using an old picture - she was so cute. |
The Shed
Hallie wanted to play in the sprinkler, so I told her to first put on her swimsuit and then head outside to grab the sprinkler from the shed. She informed me that she had no idea where or even what the shed was, so after she'd donned her itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini I walked with her into the kitchen and pointed out the window at the shed. Her eye gaze followed the invisible line connecting the tip of my finger to the shed, but I could tell she hadn't yet made the connection. "The shed?" she asked. "Yes, the shed." I replied, continuing to point.
Hallie continued to stare blankly at me so I repeated myself. "Hallie, the shed! It's right there!" With an if-you-say-so look of doubtfulness on her face, she finally walked out the backdoor and into the yard. She stood, staring at the unidentified stationary building, for a couple of minutes, and then turned around and walked back into the kitchen.
"Mama," she began,
"do you mean that barn where we keep the thing that shaves the grass?"
Please Don't Repeat That.
While at the park with Tom, Hallie witnessed a poorly-supervised and inexplicably-violent little boy walk up to her daddy and punch him in the penis. (Yes, that actually happened. Tom was flabbergasted and understandably angry.) Throughout the remainder of the day and the following day - at home, at the park, at the grocery store, at Lowe's - Hallie publicly apologized to Tom, as if she had been in someway involved in the attack.
"Daddy, I'm so sorry that little boy punched you in the penis! It looked like it hurt so bad."
Put Down the Scissors and Step Away From My Head.
On Friday mornings when she doesn't attend preschool, Hallie
watches me talks incessantly at me while I dry and style my hair, apply my make-up, and get ready for the day. On occasion I curl her hair, or allow her to put a little blush or lipgloss. Then one day I was feeling really generous, and I let Hallie put make-up on me (flashback to the kindergarten Mother's Day Makeover Will gave me a year ago). She took her time applying blush, powder, lipgloss, and lipstick, and then she brushed my hair as gently as you'd expect a four-year-old with Hallie's zest for life to brush. (Not gently at all, in case that wasn't clear.) Then she took a deep breath and exhaled a quiet, "well…" I asked her to repeat what she'd said, to which she replied "well…" once again. As I turned around I saw her - twinkle in her eye and scissors (where did she get scissors?!) in her hand - standing at the ready.
"Well…" she continued,
"I guess the only thing left is to go ahead and cut off your hair."
Please Don't Correct Her.
Hallie still calls hotels
"hoe-and-tells". We used to correct her, but now we can't bear the thought of her growing out of that word. She often asks,
"how's it 'til we get to stay in a hoe-and-tell again?" (yes, "how's it 'til" instead of "how long until"), and besides "I love you", it's my favorite thing she says.
Ewww, Gross.
One morning Hallie came into my closet while I was getting dressed. She does this frequently, and likes to comment on what I've chosen to wear and my appearance in general, so I didn't consider it out of the ordinary when she ran her hands up and down the arms of my soft sweater, stroked my hair, and held my face between her hands to inspect my chosen color of lipstick. She complimented my choices for the day, and then wrapped up our encounter with a quick but sincere, "oh Mommy, I love you so much".
And then, as she pranced out of the closet, I heard her comment to Tom,
"I really should go wash the poop off my hands now."
I got back in the shower.
