Anya’s made amazing progress in her verbal communication. Her pronunciation is still a bit mushy, but I’m fascinated at this newfound glimpse into how her mind works. Her imagination has really come to the forefront, which is evident from her stable of imaginary friends and her often colorful viewpoints.
A few Anyaisms from the past few days:
Memphis drivers are not great under the best of circumstances, but rain turns them into bibbling idiots; they never fail to bring out the potty-mouthed road rager in me. I have been trying to clean up my language, but…well, you know.
This past rainy Saturday, after passing several accidents bad enough to warrant calls to 911, I watched two cars jockey for the same position in a lane. Irritated, I muttered that if they caused an accident I’d kick them in the butt.
“That’s not a nice word, Mommy.”
“‘Butt’ is a swear now?”
“No, ‘kick in the butt.’ It’s mean. You pay the swear jar!”
“We have a swear jar now? And I pay into it not just for swearing, but for saying mean things?”
Well, all right, then. Makes sense. And I like the sentiment, even if it will be expensive for me when I get behind the wheel.
“How much does it cost? A quarter? A dollar?”
“Nothing. It’s an imaginary swear jar.”
Okay, then. I’d have paid, too.
Anya holds up a 4x maternity top. “Here, Mommy! This look pretty on you!”
“That’s nice, baby, but I don’t need a maternity top; I’m not pregnant anymore, remember? And that one’s too big anyway.”
“But it has room for your big belly!”
I wear an XS — even in maternity wear. Nor am I pregnant. I was just a little bloated from eating pizza for her birthday dinner the night before. Little turkey.
Someone left a dirty diaper in the restroom of the pediatrician’s office that you could smell halfway across the building. We were headed in the direction of that bathroom until we realized it was the source of the smell; then we backtracked to the other one.
“Good idea, Mommy. That bathroom smelled like butts! Let’s go use the no-butt bathroom.”
“Poppy needs to mow his yard. And trim those weeds. I call them weeds.”
“They are weeds, baby. That’s right.”
“I also call them vines. Climb up them to the sky-sky-sky.”
“That sounds like fun!”
“No, it’s scary up there. Poppy needs to cut those weeds.”
“You should tell him that.”
“Poppy no like work.”
“Daddy need to mow our grass. And trim our bushes. They too big!”
“Yeah, one of those vines is growing into the garage, too — I saw it when we were getting out of the car.”
“The yard is trying to eat us!”
It does appear that way…
While snuggling in bed with her sick mother: “You my sweet mommy. I love you pretty like a cloud.”
“Pretty like a cloud?”
“Mhm. A pink cloud. At sunset.”
I suppose I can forgive the big belly remark.