A Three-Year-Old’s Lexicon
E is a master word inventor. Her current sabor del mes is immerk. The coolest part about her use of this word is that she utilizes several parts of speech with it.
Noun: You’re an immerk.
Adjective: Immerking voices.
Verb: I’m immerking you.
Adjective/noun double scoop: Immerking immerks.
You’d think that after all this immerking I’d know what the fuck immerk means. But I have a hunch that once you hear immerking voices, you will never be the same again.
Do you think rhyming is totes awesome? It’s okay, I’ll answer for you: Fo’ shizzle my nizzle bo dizzle! Rhyming appeals to us and we feel a sense of satisfaction when we make up/hear a kickass rhyme or rhyming scheme. Not surprisingly this appreciation for rhyming starts at a young age for some. For E, it started with all made up words. Hinkta sinkta linkta was the trifecta of choice for a while. Then her rhyming morphed into beginning with a real word and following it with two gobbletygook words (or words that happen to be real words unbeknownst to her) that rhyme with the first word. So, about a month ago we were out a restaurant and E took a bite of her burrito and screamed, “Mmmmm, yummy scummy cummy!” Of all the fucking sounds to precede –ummy, she chose those two. Those two. Not /ch/ or /f/ or /g/ or /h/ or /t/. Even /d/ or /b/ would’ve sounded age-appropriate. Goddamn I love my weird kid.
Okay, so I swear to god this happened yesterday: E and Babe and I were hanging out on E’s bed, surrounded by some random household objects that she’s taken into her possession and made into doctor’s instruments. She was holding one of these objects (a dropper I think) and sort of shaking it up and down on her lap when out of her mouth flies, “smooooshy cun, smooshy cu-nit, smooshy cunt!” Seriously? This is getting eerie.
P.S. If you landed on this post using the search terms “smooshy cunt,” move along now, there’s nothing here for you. And the same goes for you “itty bitty pussy” searchers, you sick fucks.
A Three-Year-Old’s Harsh Realization
A few weeks ago, upon seeing her dad come out of the shower, E pointed to his baby maker and innocently inquired, “Daddy, what’s that?”
“Well, honey, that’s Daddy’s penis. Boys have penises and girls have yonis or vaginas. You have a yoni just like Mama.”
“But I want a penis! When can I have a penis, when can I get a penis?!” E lamented as she collapsed onto the floor and bawled her eyes out.
I wanted to explain to her that if she truly felt like this when she got older, we would gladly pay for the surgery if we could afford it. But instead I just held her and said, “I know it’s hard when we want something we can’t have…But yonis are really cool and they look like beautiful flowers.” Bam! Tantrum over.
About a week later I happened to walk into her room while she was gingerly examining her nether regions. “Mommy,” she said sweetly with her legs spread eagle and feet behind her head, “when I get bigger I’ll have a penis.” I again explained to her about how awesome girl parts are and how they look like floral masterpieces. She was dubious but remained calm. “Well, but I still want a penis…Why do boys have penises?” I don’t even remember what I said exactly because all I could think about was how trippy it was that I was discussing the birds and the bees with this little person who seemingly just came out of my vagina like days ago.
Then, as if she read my mind she asked, “Do boy bees have penises?” I just about shat my pants. Then I was like, do they? I think so. Of course they do. They must. How else would they reproduce? I’ve never thought about bee penises. I can’t picture a bee penis. All I can picture is a stinger. That doesn’t sound comfortable. In case you’ve ever wondered about bee sex but were afraid to ask, drone honey bees not only have huge penises (the largest of any living creature compared to its body size) but they commit suicide just to have a little sexy time with the queen. Honey bee sex occurs in mid-air, when the queen flies out in search of mates. As the brave drone grasps the queen, he turns his penis inside out using a contraction of his abdominal muscles and hemostatic pressure, and inserts it tightly into the queen’s reproductive tract. He immediately ejaculates with such explosive force that the tip of his penis ruptures, and is left behind inside the queen. The drone falls to the ground, where he dies soon after. You’re welcome.
A Three-Year-Old’s Attempted Grasp of the Concept of Death
One of our beloved cats, Bogey, died unexpectedly a couple months ago, and of course we had to try to explain it to E the best we could in three-year-old speak. I told her that Bogey died and she replied, “Oh…That’s a real bummer.” I told her that we’ll never see Bogey again but we’ll always remember and love him. “But he’s still going to meow,” E said very matter-of-factly. We went back and forth in this manner for a couple minutes until she asked, “Where is Bogey? Is he in the trashcan?” I froze. He was indeed in the trashcan “waiting” to be buried in the backyard. I felt queasy. For one, she had no idea he was in the trashcan; she’d been sleeping when Babe informed me of Bogey’s passing and his current whereabouts. There’s no way she knew he was in the trashcan. Plus she’s never seen Babe put a dead animal in the trashcan. Secondly, I couldn’t handle the fact that my sweet Bogey Wogey was in the trashcan surrounded by garbage. “Yes, he’s in the trashcan and we’re going to bury him later in the backyard,” I said with a huge lump in my throat.
The time came for the burial. I’d never actually buried any animal let alone my own pet. Babe went to retrieve the body from the trashcan while I sobbed and E smiled in anticipation of seeing Bogey. Babe removed him from the plastic bag and we laid his body next to the hole Babe had dug. I cried tears all over his body while I gently stroked his dirty fur repeating, “It’s okay, Bogey.” It was clear E still didn’t understand what the hell was going on even though Bogey’s body lay there lifeless and stiff. She smiled while she pet him and said his name a few times just like she did when he was alive. It was time to bury him so Babe placed him in the hole. This is when I really lost it and ironically wailed like a three-year-old. Like y’know that kind of cry kids do where even after they’ve stopped crying there’s this automatic gasp that happens repeatedly for a little while? That’s what I was doing. Babe began covering the body with dirt. E screamed, “But his eyes, he can’t see!” I sobbed again. I was sobbing for the loss of our beloved friend but also for E’s ephemeral naiveté. I was envious of her innocence and already mourning the impending loss of it.
She asks about death every so often now.
“Mommy, why do we die?”
“Mommy, when can I die?”
“Can we see when we die?”
“What happens to our eyes when we die, Mommy?”
“Bogey’s dead but he can still meow.”
A Three-Year-Old’s Transition From Psycho to Slightly Less Psycho
E is finally out of her total psycho phase and currently in transition from being a weeanderthal to a semi-normal human. A couple months ago, I got the dreaded call from her teacher. She had scratched a girl in the face for no apparent reason. Then this type of behavior became an everyday occurrence. She would seemingly “choose” one person (mostly sweet little girls) and set out to torment her physically and emotionally. This is when I realized she was at the pinnacle of a major psycho-cycle and that the situation called for drastic measures. And by drastic measures I mean bribing with chocolate and ice cream. Many moms out there have their high and mighty opinions about how getting children to change their behaviors by dangling chocolate in front of them is bad, but ya know what? It fucking worked like a charm. Besides, you know me; you think I’m gonna give her a goddamn Snickers bar? Oh no, only the best, most expensive, organic, GMO-free, soy-free, dairy-free, fair-trade chocolate made by companies are not owned by selfish fuckwads for my little angel—Newman’s organic dark chocolate, fair trade cacao nibs, Coconut Bliss ice cream. Regret? None. Shame? A little.
Btw, E is officially potty trained! Ya know why? Because we fuckin’ bribed the shit out of her. Literally. She really likes looking at her poop in the toilet and comparing each one to a certain shape or animal.
“Look, Mommy, it’s a snake poop!”
“Look, it’s a starfish poop!”
“Look, my poop looks like a pentagon!”
“Look, I made an octopus poop!”
“Look, I pooped a Glenn Beck!”
Anyway, we here in Crazytown have been waiting for this for a long f-ing time. It’s totally freaking awesome. Except it’s not. Because when something bad (and by bad I mean resisting and screaming and kicking like we’re trying to murder her during almost every diaper change) turns into something good, another good thing must turn bad. It appears that the rumors of regressive behavior in conjunction with potty training are true. Ever since she became a potty rock star, she simply cannot handle seeing or even thinking about things she wants that she cannot acquire at that very moment. The other day at the park a little girl showed up in a very fancy dress-up dress. Y’know, totally normal park attire. E completely lost it as soon as she laid eyes on it. She screamed and cried and yelled, “But I want that dress!!!!!!” She couldn’t compose herself to the point where we had to leave the fucking park. E’s also gone back to her old two-year-old thinking patterns of believing that she’s the only person in the fucking world that matters and if she doesn’t get her way right away it’s equal to squashing her soul into a puddle of goo. Today, she wanted me to push her on our backyard swing for the fiftieth time and I told her I had to go get my nasal spray first because tree pollen is trying to kill me. Could she handle waiting for one goddamn minute? Certainly not. This turned into an epic, half-hour freak-the-fuck-out screamfest that ended with me lying on the couch exhausted and E lying on top of me saying, Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy…,” which actually sounded like, “MomME, MomME, MomME, MomME…,” which makes perfect fucking sense. Somebody please throw me a bone. Oh wait, don’t; it’ll probably hit me in the head.