The twenty-monther says new words daily. Some of her favorites include boob, please (when she wants a treat), thank you, pizza, mess, and help (as in help save me from my sister who won’t stop touching my hair). The other day she walked around the house and knocked things off the tables. “Uh, oh,” she said as each item hit the floor, a trail of mess in her wake.
The three-year-old likes to point out that she’s “big and tall” and can do lots of things her sister cannot. She often comes into the room exclaiming, “I have a question,” and follows with something like “I want milk.” (she never seems to have an actual question)
“You run, jump, and hop – so many new skills. What other skills can you do?” I ask.
“Like this,” she says, twirling around and flapping her arms, “alley-oop ballet.”
She scribbles with a black pen on a piece of construction paper and almost completely covers the paper. “Look, a microwave.”
“What does your boob say?” she asks out of the blue.
Before I say anything, she answers, “How a meet you?”
“Put a shirt on,” I tell her.
“Why, because my boobs are cold?” she asks.
I hand her a bowl of cereal. “Those are Rice Krispies. They talk: snap crackle pop. Can you hear them? What do they say?” I ask.
“They say they want to eat themselves. With me.”
We clean up and vacuum the living room floor.
She makes snow angels on the carpet. “It’s all clean and farkaly.” (sparkly)
She asks what we’re having for dinner. “Porketta, you know, like Kacyetta, mometta, dadetta,” I say.
“You know, like porky Kyva,” she responds.
She puts sunglasses on and reads the palm of my hand.
“What am I going to be when I grow up?” I ask.
I pretend to read her palm and ask, “What are you going to be?”
She can’t fall asleep and calls to me. She wants “yots of lights.” So I put in all the nightlights I can find, five. But it’s not enough. So I find her ladybug nightlight, the one with the star constellations, and I turn it on. It glows for ten seconds and dulls, then goes out. “Read me a story,” she says, wanting me to make up a fairy tale featuring Kacya Warrior Princess. “I’ll tell your story, you tell mine,” she says. So I make up a story and then she tells me hers:
“He’s like this,” she says holding her hands wide apart, “and a little like this,” her index finger and thumb two inches wide, and a “yot like this,” she says while making a large circle with her hand, with a “yittle hat,” she says, forming a birthday hat shape with her hands. “He’s called Bad Dinosaur. Chomp, chomp, chomp” she says, forming her hands into sharp teeth. “He eats lights out of the ladybug.”
She sings to her sister:
“I love you, my sister,
when I play with you all day.
Hey, hey, hey.”