|Image c/o www.caseygp.blogspot.com|
One day, on an impulse-purchase shopping spree, I bought my son some boxer shorts. How cute, little tiny boxer shorts! I took them home, showed them to him, and he was not impressed. First, they didn't have Thomas the Train or Toy Story on them. Boring. Second, they didn't look like the whitey-tighties he's used to wearing. So, in a moment of sheer brilliance (which would later turn out to be sheer madness), I explained to him that they were "underwear shorts." What I meant was that they were underwear that looked like shorts. His interpretation: they're underwear and shorts in one. "Awesome," he's thinking in his tiny little mind, "now I only have to put one thing on in the morning because these count as underwear AND shorts." So, to this day, I'm still fighting the battle of trying to get him to understand that he can't go to daycare in just boxer shorts. "But, Momma, they're underwear shorts." Sigh.
|Image c/o www.sodahead.com|
The nice thing about my son is that he's pretty good at communicating what he's thinking. The bad thing? He has no tact. He just opens his adorable little mouth and spits out gems like, "Momma, why does that lady look like a boy?" or (to my friend), "YaYa, why is your house so messy?" or (even better) "Uncle Matt, I dropped a big poop in your toilet." Sure, the rest of us might be thinking those things, but at some point we've learned that it's not "polite" to say them. He clearly has not learned that lesson yet. Coupled with this is the fact that he doesn't understand whispering. Oh, he tries to whisper - cups his little hands around my ear, usually putting me in a head-lock at the same time - but it is not quiet. So, when he whispers, "Momma, that boy is wearing pink. Boys don't wear pink," in the grocery store, everyone hears it - including the man wearing the pink polo shirt.
No One Wants to Snuggle When You're Sweaty:
Now, let me clarify: My son doesn't want to snuggle when he's sweaty, he wants to snuggle when I'm sweaty. Here I am, fresh off the treadmill, drenched in sweat, every part of my body is sticky, I have sweat rolling off of my forehead and down my back, and I stink. All I want to do is take a shower. I like running, but I'm so sweaty, I'm even a little disgusted with myself. What does my son want to do? Crawl in my lap, have me carry him around, and give me a big hug. He does not understand that no human being in their right mind would touch me with a ten-foot pole right now; I'm gross. He is clearly oblivious to this fact.
So, while my son might understand important things like, "Stop signs mean stop," and, "Green lights means go," he still has a lot to learn.