Taking care of kids, especially the cleaning up after them part can be a thankless, repetitive job. It’s 7:30 in the morning and before me: a pile of dirty clothes, dishes stacked on the counter, breakfast oatmeal smeared on the chair and table, food splattered across the floor, an accident in the bathroom, a dirty diaper, and a trail of crumbs, toys, kitchen gear, toilet paper, and unidentifiable goo stretching three rooms deep. The day rolls by; the mess multiplies faster than I can clean. Then it’s lunchtime and more mess appears. So I clean, again and again, ad nauseam. Lost in the duty (doody) part of parenthood, it’s easy to forget the fun bits that make the rest worthwhile. But with a three-year-old’s nonstop chatter and imaginative play, funny moments are frequent. The kidbits, at the very least, make me laugh while I clean the floor for the umpteenth time.
She comes down with a car shirt on and a hair bow around her neck. “I’m a boy,” she says enthusiastically.
“I’ll draw you a picture,” she says.
“Cool, what will you draw?” I ask.
“My bottom,” she responds.
“Please throw this diaper away,” I say.
“No, I have stuff to do,” she replies.
“Really, what stuff?”
Mumbling and counting on her fingers, “the dockadoo, the beatabeat, the dubedue, the beabotabee.”
She finds a disposable camera. “I take a selfie.” Then she turns to me. “Say coconut,”she says, snapping a picture, “say abracadabra.”
She grabs a book from my bookcase. “It’s about my Dada’s boy. He falls a lot,” she says.
“Does he get hurt?” I ask.
“Not in the book,” she responds.
“Will you read the book to me?”
“It’s called Debitabitabu,” she tells me. I repeat the title and she gives me the thumbs up.
“I like when you thumbs up,” I say.
“Thank you. I made it myself,” she responds.
Kacya fake cries. “Stop that, it’s annoying,” I say.
Later, I tell her my computer is being annoying. “Is it crying?” she asks.
“I got an inshrament,” Kacya says, playing a pretend trumpet with her hands [but she doesn’t know you make sound with your mouth]. “Mine’s broken.”
She plays doctor and fixes my hurt arm with a shot. “Close your eyes and think about something nice,” she says. Then she asks me to fix her arm. ”Blup blup,” I say, as I pretend to give her arm shots.
“No, no, wait.” She closes her eyes. “a bowling ball.”
She runs from a pretend alligator in the “neighborhood.”
“Oh, yeah, I hear they’re a big problem in these parts. Watch out,” I tell her.
“No, I ate him.”
While out on a walk she throws her hat down in a huff and refuses to ride her push bike. I grab her hat and start walking away. “Wait, my helmet,” she cries.
“I don’t have boobs,” she tells me. I ask if she wants some. “Yes, because I do,” she responds.
Later, she tells me she wants to be a momma when she grows up.
“That’s a long time from now,” I say.
“Yes, when I have boobs,” she replies.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask.
“A Dada with boobs,” she replies.
Kacya pleads, “can I have a beard? Pleassssssse. I really, really want one.”
I tell her she has blue eyes. She says mine are poop eyes (They’re brown. Thanks, kid).
Kacya finds a bag of rocks. “Hm, looks like poop.” She lines the rocks up. “This is Dada’s poop, Momma’s, Kyva’s, mine, Grandma Ruth’s poop….”