Jacksy-Wacksy (whoa there bad nick name HOLD ON) is starting to sound like he's auditioning for "Kids Say the Darndest Things". Somebody get me Bill Cosby's phone number. (After a long introduction, my voice mail for Cosby would go something like this: "I make that face while hatin' on Trump too! I do it all the time at work! We have so much in common! Call me! Oh yeah, and my kid should be on that show you hosted thirty years ago if time machines become real. I love you").
Pics of my cute kid & his mother. They're like, pretty outdated, thanks to my sister Teresa who reserved all the rights to her photos on FLICKR and I had to hack into her account to download them, jeez.
I want to write down EVERY SINGLE THING Jack has been saying lately. I'm in THAT place. Sick, twisted mommy love. Drooling adoration. Like, "OH MY GOD, you would not believe what my two year old said the other day let me impersonate him RIGHT NOW for you." Yeah, none of my co-workers will say hi to me in the halls anymore. That's cool. That's why I have this blog. I'd like to see my blog tell me to shut it. Not gonna happen. I told myself: "Put it in writing and print the evidence. Store safely in a small potpourri box. Never lose it. Read quotes aloud to myself AND roommate sixty years from now should a moment arise when I need to stab my heart with some small amount of joy after Jack's put me in a home."
Because, c'mon. After giving birth and stuff I pretty much own the right to be entertained by my son. He owes me that. A video would better capture the hilarity of his comments but he clams up whenever I film him. He pretends he doesn't KNOW HOW TO SING THE ENTIRE ALPHABET IN A MONSTER VOICE just like mommy taught him to.
Without the audio visual support, you'll have to read these quotes aloud in a toddler voice and kind of flip your hands around for full effect.
Me: (attempting to make small talk while driving Jack to Daycare because the car radio broke so no NPR) "Hey Jack. Mommy MADE YOU in her tummy. That's why you are in the world now."
Jack: "No, I made you in my tummy. I made you in my tummy. I made you in my car seat."
Me: "That's incorrect."
Jack: "I'm a girl and you're a girl and Daddy's a boy and Holme's a GIRL." (Holme is his Un-Grandma)
Jack: "Mommy, I WILL take care of you. Because the Dinosaur is coming."
Standing at the top of the stairs, next to all the family photos on the wall, refusing to come down:
Jack: "I can't come downstairs because the pictures are scaring me."
Me: "How are the pictures scaring you?"
Jack: "They're biting me."
Me: "It doesn't look like they are."
Jack: "They are."
Cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning
Jack: "What's that?" pointing to the freckles on my arms (these are no ordinary freckles, my arms are covered in pretty aggressive freakin' freckles and there's like a village of them).
Me: "Beauty marks."
Jack: "No. Those are owies. Those are owie brown coco dots!"
Me: "You mean polka dots?"
Jack: "Yeah. Coco dots."
Jack: "I'll kiss them and make it all better."
So here my kid is only two years old and according to what he's told me he is already:
1) The first male capable of giving birth (to his own mother, no less).
2) A gender specialist.
3) A dinosaur slayer.
4) Afraid of wall pictures.
5) A doctor who specializes in freckle reduction.
These are all super useful skills and personality traits. Obviously, I'm concerned about his irrational fear of family photos but given the context, it's not surprising. We are biters.
On second thought, I should probably print more than one copy of this post. I think his daycare teachers really need to read this. As his mother, it's my responsibility to make sure his talents are nurtured.
And I'll need another copy for Cosby.