One of the few things about winter that is easier than summer is getting your kids to get ready for bed.“Annamarie, time to get in the bathtub!” I called to our three year old the other night.
“No Dad, it not even night time,” came her reply.
Glancing at my watch, I told her that it was indeed after seven and reminded her that bedtime was supposed to be eight o’clock.
“Dad look,” she pointed out the window, “it isn’t even dark, look Dad, the sky is still blue.”
How was I supposed to argue with such logic?
“You’re funny,” I told her.
“No I am’nt,” she protested in three year old grammar.
I realize that the correct contraction is “aren’t” but at least she didn’t say “Aint.” However, unless I’m mistaken, “aint” has be officially recognized as a legitimate word (much to the chagrin of my eighth grade English teacher), whereas, “am’nt” is pretty much Annamarie’s very own invention.
With her older sister finishing kindergarten, beginning to read and doing things like playing soccer and riding bikes and her oldest sister undergoing nine excruciating months of intensive therapy for her double-vision and therefore reaching her own milestones in balance, reading, writing, actually catching and hitting a softball… well, I guess that s lot of Annamarie’s life changes have been flying by.
Whatever you do, don’t ever call her a “little” girl, she’ll correct you, “No I am’nt! I’m BIG.”
Don’t try to pour the milk on her cereal for her “I kin doo it, I kin doo it!” she’ll say as she wrestles the gallon jug away from you, “Look! I kin doo it, I’m STRONG,” she’ll say, as she sloshes milk on the table.
Everybody tells me to enjoy them while they’re young, and they’re constantly warning me about how I should expect trouble with boys once they’re older. We already have a big problem with imaginary boyfriends.
“Dad,” Annamarie likes to tell me, “You’re my best fwend.”
“Aw shucks, thanks honey, I love you too.”
“But Dad, I have to tell you sometin,” she’ll explain, getting very serious.
“What is it, is something wrong?” I ask.
“It’s my boyfwend. You know my boyfwend, Jacob?”
“Jacob who?” Who is this guy, some kid at the babysitter?
“Jacob Brownie, my boyfwend!”
“Oh, THAT Jacob, what happened?”
“He died.”
“He died? Oh my goodness, you must be devastated.”
“yeah, but only now I have a new boyfwen.”
“Oh, already? Who is he?”
“Jacob.”
“But I thought Jacob died.”
“Not THAT Jacob, my new boyfwend is Jacob Marshmallow, not Jacob Brownie, Jacob MARSHMALLOW!”
She’s only three and I already can’t keep up. But I know she won’t be three forever.
The other day, I had all three girls in the van on the farm when we saw a farmer park a tractor, followed by his year old son moving his pickup. After living here in Iowa the better part of a decade now, I’ve gotten used to the idea of 10-13 year old boys helping move vehicles to help with planting and harvest. Be that as it may, my girls were all impressed with their very impressive. Ellen, who’s six asked how she’ll have to be before she can drive.
“Well, when you get into eighth or ninth grade you can take Driver’s Ed class and get a learner’s permit when you’re 14 or 15 and then you’ll be able to get your license when you’re 16,” I explained.
“I’M SIXTEEN!” announced Annamarie from her car seat.
“When did you turn sixteen? I could’ve sworn you were just three?” I said.
“I pooped in the big girl potty today and now I’m sixteen!”
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