Two recent conversations with the Small Boy:
Not too long ago we were getting ready for breakfast, still in our jammies.
“What would you like for breakfast, lovey?”
Here, he means Pillsbury, from the can, not to be confused with my Sticky Buns, which are a work of culinary art and a one way ticket to clogged arterial bliss.
“We don’t have Cinnamon Rolls, baby. But I could make you cinnamon toast.”
At which point he looked at me as if I had perhaps suggested he stand on his head. So, I explained cinnamon toast.
“I would like that,” he says.
“If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it,” I offer.
“You can make your own,” he replies.
Oh, can I?
Another night we were out for Japanese, followed by a stop at Ben & Jerry’s on the way home (sushi followed by ice cream has long been a part of the language of our little family). In line at the scoop shop, I’m holding Felix up to see the flavors, and he looks at me, sticks his tongue out as far as it will go, wiggles it, and says, full voice, “Let’s do tongue kisses!”
I was laughing too hard to finish the ice cream order.
We’ve been doing nose, or Eskimo, kisses lately, and I guess in the average three-year old brain, it’s not that far of a leap from lips and noses to tongues, but good grief! Why does he always say stuff like this when we’re out in public?