Tag Archives: language development

She Says… Blabbing with my Boy

Owen and I had several conversations this weekend that made me chuckle. I wish I could follow him around with a little tape recorder, as I can never remember all of the sweet, honest, hilarious, wise things that come out of his mouth. It’s amazing to me how our conversations these days are, like, real conversations. We can just… shoot the shit once in a while.

Owen: When I am 25 1/2, how old will Emmett be? (We’ve had this conversation about a bazillion times in the last few days… either his brain is working on understanding the math behind how he will always be three years older than Emmett, or he’s learned that asking me this question over and over is a hilarious way to make me go insane)
Me: When you are 25 1/2, Emmett will be 22 1/2.
Owen: What will I be doing when I’m 25 1/2? (A nice diversion from the usual exchange of asking the same question with different numbers for 10 minutes)
Me: I don’t know, exactly. You’ll probably be out of college. Maybe you’ll be in another school, like medical school or business school, or maybe you’ll have a job. And maybe a family. Would you want to have a family?
Owen: Yup. I want to be a Daddy and have a family. I want boy babies. Two boys. Like me and Emmett!
Me: Well, I hope you get that! You know, you don’t always get to choose what kind of babies you get, or if you get babies at all, though.
Owen: What’s medical school and business school?
Me: They are schools that you can go to after you finish college. To learn how to do certain jobs. Like to be a doctor or a lawyer or someone who works in business. What kind of job do you think you want to do when you grow up?
Owen: I want to go to medical school and then business school. And then I want to paint pictures of what I want to eat for snack as my job.
Me: I love that plan. (How apropos for the offspring of two liberal arts students: going to school forever and then becoming a painter!)

Owen: When do people stop growing?
Me: Well, it’s different for every person. I think around the time they go to college.
Owen: So when are you going to be as tall as Daddy?
Me: I’m not. I’m done growing. I went to college already.
Owen: And what about Schnitzel? When is he going to be as tall as Daddy?
Me: He’s done growing too. He’s “full grown”, which means he will stay the same size for the rest of his life. But his hair will keep growing.
Owen: But he didn’t go to college.
Me: True.

Owen: I hear a woodpecker!
::Owen runs to find his binoculars to see if he can see it::
Owen: What if a woodpecker pecked into your head and all over your face? Well then you’d need a LOT of bandaids. And you’d probably have to go to the store to get new ones because that’s a LOT of bloods. And you might have to see the doctor and they might say, “Why did a woodpecker peck your face, silly?!”.


I love this kid and his little brain so much.


She Says… I Have One More Question for You

Owen’s favorite phrase du jour is “I have one more question for you”. It definitely sounds like something I’d say, so I’m not surprised he picked it up, but I am surprised that he seems to use it appropriately (when he really does have only one more question). It sounds so adult coming out of his tiny little mouth.

We had our first “getting out of bed” experience the other night, 3 weeks after introducing the big boy bed (which also means that we won a bet with our friends, who said they’d take us all out for ice cream if Owen lasted 3 weeks without leaving his room — score!). I was wondering when that was going to happen! This was pretty much the best case scenario and I’m thrilled that Owen seems to have adjusted with very little changing in terms of our sleeping routine. So far, at least.

This was the conversation we had when he woke up yesterday morning.

Owen: Mommy, am I allowed to get out of bed?
Me: No, you should stay in bed until I come get you in the morning.
Owen: Is Lovey allowed to jump out of bed?
Me: Well, it’s better if he stays in bed, but… Why? did he fall out of bed last night?
Owen: Yes.
Me: That’s ok! What did you do?
Owen: Silence. I think he thought he was supposed to say he DIDN’T get out of bed, but doesn’t yet know how to lie.
Me: That’s ok if you got out just to get Lovey. Because I didn’t hear you cry for me. Did you cry for me?
Owen: No. I got out of bed (sheepish grin).
[Side note: Oh how I adore the “telling on myself constantly” phase!]
Me: That’s ok. As long as it was just to get Lovey. Did you get right back in bed?
Owen: I DID!
Me: That’s awesome, buddy. I’m so proud of you for getting Lovey yourself.
Owen: Mommy, I have one more question for you.
Me: Yes?
Owen: Am I allowed to fix my blankets myself?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Did you fix your blankets yourself when you got back in bed?
Owen: I DID!

So proud. As I’ve said before, we’ll see how long it lasts, but so far so good on the big boy bed front!

She Says… Poopy Mouth


Why is poop so darn funny?

Given that I will eventually have two (or more?) sons, I guess I’d better get on board. Poop is, apparently, hilarious.

At the ripe old age of 2 3/4, Owen caught on to the fact that talking about poop elicits giggles and smirks, no matter who he’s talking to, adult or child. I do my best to keep a straight face (nearly impossible sometimes), and even attempted a valiant effort of firmly responding, “We don’t talk about poop unless we’re ACTUALLY talking about going poop” every time it came out of his mouth for a while. I know another mom who says you can only say the word poop if you are IN the bathroom.

To no avail. The poop talk is here to stay.

I thought I had more time before this lovely milestone hit, because I know from experience it doesn’t go away until, like… 12 years old? 21 years old? Ummm, never, for some dudes?

As I said, originally I actually thought I could control/contain/discourage this behavior by not laughing and setting boundaries around when we actually CAN talk about poop. WRONG! Everything is poop. Poopy face. Poopy girl. Poop. Poop brown. Poop, poop, poop. Peepee once in a while, though that is far less funny. If he doesn’t know the answer to a question? It’s poop. What do you want for dinner tonight? Poop. Did you have a nice sleep last night? Poop. And then cue the giggles.

Benjamin recently pointed out that my tactic of discouraging this kind of talk was likely making it worse (“Oh, this BOTHERS you, Mom? I will do it some more! POOP POOP POOP!”). So I tried a new tactic. Just let it be. Give the word poop no more power than any other word. Deal with it, but don’t encourage it. I thought maybe Benjamin was right.

Alas, that doesn’t seem to have helped either. Or the damage is already done.

We had a playdate over the weekend and that little boy tempted fate by saying “butt” and looking at his mom like, “Is she going to punish me?”. Clearly these little guys are just testing limits. And I don’t think this is a battle I’m going to fight very hard. There are bigger fish to fry. But someone please tell me this poop talk thing is a stage?

Does your kid talk about poop (or some other inappropriate but totally normal topic that makes non-parents in the grocery store roll their eyes at you)? What do you do about it, if anything?

She Says… Add It To The Dictionary

Last week while I was getting ready to go out, Owen reached up onto my bathroom counter and burned his finger on my hot rollers that were heating up. After a few tears (more from being surprised than burned, I imagine) and a cuddle with “Boo Boo Guy” (a frozen happy face gel pack that heals all wounds), he was pretty much over it. He kept holding up his thumb and saying “I got a boo boo”, when really I could see a little welt starting to grow on his ring finger. Side note: it’s so interesting to me how kids don’t always know exactly where their pain is coming from (which is why some dig in their ears when they are teething or can’t tell you what hurts).

The next day I noticed that little red welt had grown a bubble on top of it and it looked like it was about to burst. Not too long ago, on the morning of Owen’s birthday party in July, my upper arm had a run-in with a hot cookie sheet straight out of the oven,which bubbled up in exactly the same way, so fortunately (unfortunately?) I am quite familiar with the stages of a burn. As such, the bubble didn’t really worry me, but I knew that it was probably going to hurt until that pressure was relieved.

So I said, in my brightest and happiest voice, “Oh! Your boo boo got a little blister! Let’s go pop it and then you can put a super special car band-aid on it.”. You guys, he has been DYING to use one of those car band-aids since I bought them at the store months ago, so I knew this would be just the ticket to get through the blister popping without a lot of drama. I chattered away with him to distract him while I sterilized a needle and popped the blister before he even had a chance to see what I was doing.

For someone who used to pass out at the sight of a needle at the doctor’s office, I sure have come a long way. I know it was only a minor first-aid moment, but I felt like supermom. And, just as I suspected, it was a total non-issue and the car band-aid was worth the boo boo.

Since then, the skin has peeled away and he’s left with a little red mark on his finger. Last night he was looking at it in the bath and said, “What’s dat, Mommy? It’s my PLOP. I got a PLOP.”

It took me a minute, but then I realized. A plop. His little brain smooshed “blister” and “popped” together and it became a “plop”.

I love it.