Me: Don’t call me that Owen; it’s not nice.
Owen, earnestly: But you said I could call you anything just as long as I don’t call you late for dinner.
Me: ba dum bum.
Word mix ups: we planted new lilac bushes a few weekends ago, and Owen calls them violacs. I was going to correct him, but violacs seemed rather apropos. Instead of “don’t mind of I do,” he’ll say: “I don’t mind what I do.”
Owen is very into making rhymes these days, and the other day he came running to me, saying: “Mom! I made a rhyme! Greenest penis!”
I was talking to Sean and said to him about someone: I think she is Armenian. Owen promptly interrupted: No, Dorothy is our minion!
The other day Owen said to me: I think Dorothy needs a hearing aid. She never listens to me or Nanny.
When we were driving home from Massachusetts after the holidays, Sean thought he had lost his new pocketknife at a rest-stop and let out a few choice words. (He later found the knife.) Anyway an hour or so later when we were still in the car driving, Owen mused: “Daddy said a bad word when he lost his knife.”
Me: That’s right, he did.
Owen: Daddy said “stupid.”
Me, thinking: he said a lot worse than that!
Wise words from Owen: Sometimes, Mom, you don’t know if a cat is happy.
Around Thanksgiving time Owen learned the history of Thanksgiving at school. I realized he didn’t quite understand it when he started talking as if WE had taken our particular house from the Indians. I had to do some explaining.
After finishing a slice of cake not too long ago, Owen said, “Today I fell in love with chocolate.”
Owen one day sitting next to a very loudly snoring Dorothy: “I don’t like snoring. I like to be quiet like a pig alone in its puddle.”
The issue of death has also come up often lately – mainly in regards to pets. He knows that I had my pug, Tulip, and Sean had his cat, Kilman, and that both are no longer with us. He still doesn’t get the sadness of death – which I suppose is a good thing on the whole, but it leads to him making comments to me such as the following. He was pretending to talk on an old landline phone of mine and said to me, “Mom, Tulip is on the phone! She’s not dead; she’s just living somewhere else!” Me, thinking: well that is just horrible!!
I was between Owen and the spray of water one night and apologized for being a waterhog. A few minutes later Owen said: “Mom, you’re doing it again! You’re being a wet groundhog!”
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