Call me “lazy” or “exploitative,” but today’s blog post once again comes to you from the 2-and-a-half-year-old
indentured servant child who lives in my apartment. Because of her, I am tired of even thinking about talking. And yet, she just says the darndest things.
“How’s your owie, Daddy? When I’m an age I’ll be a Harper doctor and I’ll fix it for you!”
“The pee was walking to the pee door but now it’s walking the other way and getting on the bus.”
“I’m going to nurse Alton. Okay, now I have to save the rest for my dollies who love my spicy milk.”
(singing) “Hush little baby don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird, and if that mockingbird don’t shine, that clementine will be a lime, and if that monkey have a mustache…how it goes again, Mama?”
(After the dog jumped on the couch in the midst of a stuffed animal tea party) “Quimby falled down my cubbies! She makes me laugh but she also makes me fuss.”
“Maybe when we are bigger we can live in a treehouse. When I am bigger because I eat healthy food. We love each other so much!”
“I’m not hungry for lunch. I just already ate pretend hot dogs.”
“Ballerinas don’t poop.”
Wisdom for the ages.