On our walk this morning, Annie told me she had an idea for Sous’ next birthday present. Earnestly:
“Come here so she doesn’t hear!”
I bend down to the stroller to receive this secret. Lips against my ear:
“It’s a—what’s her favorite color?”
“I don’t know, she’s a… Um, red?”
“It’s a RED, CHEWY STICK!!”
Annie’s story requests continue to develop:
“Tell me a story about when Elsa was driving with her dad, and he turned off his headlights, and all the other cars did too, and then they all had a big crash, and then the wolves and the coyotes and the werewolves and the hyenas came–”
“And the lions!” (Paul)
“And the lions came, and they couldn’t call anyone because they didn’t have their phones.”
So I told it to them, naturally. Spoiler alert: Elsa makes a big ice bubble to keep the scary animals away, and they wait it out until a police helicopter spots them in the morning. Phew.
On Annie’s trick-or-treating bag. It’s a mommy mermaid and a baby mermaid. Obviously.
Now she’s telling stories. Here’s one:
“Once upon a time, Paul pooped on a tow truck, and he had to go to the doctor. That’s the end.”
Overheard, from the stroller:
Paul: Annie, is [mumble] in real life?
Annie: Yeah.
Paul: Is [mumble] in real life?
Annie: Yeah.
Is [mumble] in real life? Yeah. Is [mumble] in real life!? Yeah. Is [mumble] in real life!?! Yeah.
I’m starting a log of the hilarious (?) story requests I receive from Annie and Paul (but mostly Annie), for their entertainment and sensemaking, and you tell me when to call the child psychologist.
