Doesn't fall far from the tree

I’d like to think that I’m teaching my children good things, creating a sure solid foundation upon which they can thrive and become worthwhile members of society. Hopefully this means they will never graffiti male anatomy on fences, never call their elders boogers, never set off fireworks at one o’clock in the morning to scare the hoo-ha out of the neighbors, and most definitely never wear male skinny jeans (If they inherit their father’s very thick muscular bicycle thighs, this fashion will not suit them). So far, I think I’m doing a good job because neither Bosco nor Bubba have done the above mentioned things. It helps that one of them cannot walk or talk yet.

However, I’m starting to sense that things are about to get much harder, even with Bubba in all his innocent baby glory. When I tried to put him to sleep for his nap today, he just flung his arms and legs wildly and kicked me in the trachea. I was pretty sure I was going to die. Then, as I tried to change his diaper, he turned ninja on me and escaped all of my tried and true mommy maneuvers. His mischievous giggles are the only thing that kept me somewhat of a softie during the ten minute ordeal. He’s also been super ornery from the heat. The Husband was quick to point out, “Like mother, like son.”

And I fear he may be right. Heat makes me very agitated, as do socks, cats, and car alarms. Both of my kids are showing redhead tendencies . . . without having red hair. That’s not something you want to mess around with. My oldest son, he whose name is on the naughty list at the moment, seems to be picking up on all the less desirable aspects of my personality. Some of it probably isn’t even under his control because it’s just part of his gene pool.

Like yesterday morning when I left Bosco unattended, eating his cereal, I came back to realize the heinous scenario I had unintentionally set before my three year old (don't be distracted by the only living plant in my house. Look more in the vicinity of the open milk jug . . . and the salt).
Perhaps with another boy his age this would not have been a problem. But with my son, who has a mommy who does things like THIS, salt left near anything should be a red flag of fear. He didn’t even have knowledge of the previous salt prank fiasco. He just followed his gut. It was pure telepathy. A kismet connection between one childish mother’s brain to one very genius son’s brain. Luckily I caught him in the act and narrowly escaped sodium posioning.

But I must admit it has become a little worrisome now that he’s started talking like me too, albeit with a few unfortunate pronunciation/wording errors.

Let's play a little game shall we? I’ll tell you some of the things Bosco has said in the last week. And because the dear boy doesn’t always get it exactly right, you will need to guess the correction translation (I’ll include the answers at the bottom). Here we go.

1. You scared me in the poo!
2. You’re my breast friend.
3. Crack!
4. You’re boring.
5. That’s riduckulife
6. This is degutting
7. That’s totally cow!
8. Be quiet

1. You scared the poop out of me!
2. You’re my best friend
3. Crap!
4. You’re old.
5. That’s ridiculous
6. This is disgusting
7. That’s totally cool!
8. no translation, that one’s spot on

Well? How many did you get right? Obviously I need to pay more attention to the people I let him hang around. I don’t have the foggiest idea where he comes up with such stuff.

And what about you reader? What is your child learning from some mystery person (aka: you)?

1 comment:

Clare said...

Cami called Adam a "freak baby" the other day. I'm sure she picked it up from me calling my own brother a freak. One day, she may think Adam is too, but I wouldn't call him one quite yet.

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