I have drop-off duty every morning, taking Kiddo to daycare before going to my own job. It’s about a 25-minute commute. When Kiddo was small, I looked forward to when he could talk, envisioning how we’d have conversations about his day and other important topics. Instead, our conversations these days go something like this.
“I get in driver side!”
OK, hop in!
“I need boost.”
Oh, I think you can do it yourself–
“I need boost!” I boost him into the car. He crawls halfway across and sits on the back bench. “I sit here.”
No, you’re not big enough yet to sit there. In the carseat.
He gets in the carseat. “Mommy sit here?” pointing to the seat next to him.
Yes, I sit there when we ride in the minivan. (his grandparents’ car)
I buckle him in, then get in the driver’s seat. As I get settled, I cough to clear my throat.
“You have a coughing.”
Yeah, I’m coughing.
“You need drink of water.”
You’re right, I should get a drink of water!
We go down the driveway and stop at the mailbox.
“My mailbox! It has a blue dot! I want a mail.”
I hand him a single-sheet election flyer. Moments later, he starts fussing.
What’s up, Kiddo? What do you need?
“I need this open!”
Aha. He’s used to getting folded flyers or BB&B catalogs that he can open up. He doesn’t get the idea that this one doesn’t open.
Oh, I see, that one is already open. Let me stop and I’ll fix it. I take the flyer, fold it in half and hand it back. Fixed. Here you go.
[Unintelligible babbling as we drive down the road – something about the water and boats pictured on the flyer.]
Are there letters on your mail?
“W. O. Bang bang bang boom boom boom.”
We get to a T intersection. I can go either way from here. I turn right. “We go this way?”
Yep, we’re going this way.
“My YEGS.” He’s pulled his pant legs up a few inches and is looking at his legs. “I found an orange!” pointing to the orange dinosaur on his sock.
“I want my football mail.” This is a Comcast flyer with a picture of a football player on it. It’s been in the car for weeks. At the next stop I reach back and find it for him.
“Five. Nine. Four. One. I have my mail!”
Hey, look at the big truck next to us.
“That’s a big truck. A big bus! Minivan! I dropped my mail.”
Sorry, we’re driving now, I can’t get it for you.
“Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one, ZERO!”
Slurping sounds from the backseat. He’s sucking on the collar of his sweatshirt. Shirt out of your mouth, please.
“No, shirt IN my mouth please!”
Shirt out of your mouth.
“Shirt IN my mouth.” I give up on this battle.
“In my eyes.”
There’s something in your eye? What’s in your eye?
Something else about his eyes.
OH! Is the sun in your eyes? We’ll turn soon.
I change lanes, catching the end of the rumble strips on the lane marker. “What’s that?”
That’s the edge of the road. (I tell him this every single time. He still asks every single time.)
Yep, we’re here!
Not exactly quantum physics. I guess we’ll save that topic for kindergarten.