Sometimes when Daddy is putting you to bed, you run down the list of everyone else who’s sleeping. Mostly classmates from school.
It usually starts with Daddy talking about Mommy sleeping.
Tonight was a little different. You heard the water running from the toilet flushing, and you said:
“Mommy go potty.”
“Yanni go potty.”
“Holden go potty.”
“Cameron go potty.”
“Yes,” Daddy said. “Everyone goes potty.”
“Daddy go potty.”
“No, not right now,” Daddy said. “Right now I’m here with you. And it’s sleepy time.”
You were sitting on the couch eating the ice cream out of a cone with a spoon. Mommy and Daddy had each refilled the cone, so this was your third cone-full of ice cream.
Daddy was trying to maneuver something to block the patio door to stop Oshie from damaging the expensive patio door. Daddy whapped his ankle against the metal door frame and exclaimed in pain.
“Daddy bumped his foot.”
“I’m sorry,” you said between spoonfuls.
I was astonished by the level of empathy from a 31 months-old toddler.
Tears welling with love and pride, I rushed over to hug you.
Sticky and covered in ice cream, you hugged me back with a spoon in one hand and a soggy cone in the other.
“You got a boo-boo?”
“Daddy is okay, sweety. Dadddy is okay.”
After church today, when Daddy came to get you in the nursery, you came running without shoes on.
After a moment, someone followed you out carrying your shoes.
I picked you up, and you said, “I have a stinkaroo.”
A dirty diaper.
The nursery worker said she changed you once.
But it was really cute to hear you speaking in a complete sentence, “I have a stinkaroo.”
When Daddy picked you up at daycare, the temperature was more than 90 degrees at 5:15.
You got in the car and said in your soft, clear voice, “it’s hot. Turn the air on.”