Just a normal irrational conversation with a 3-year-old.

Son: Mommy I go play now?

Mother: No, finish the last couple bites of your food first, then you can go play.

Son: No! I play now!

Mother: You know the rule. Finish your food first.

Son: Noooooo! (wailing and crying ensues)

Mother: (under breath) Oh geez.

Son: (continued crying)

Mother: Calm down and finish your food. I'm going to go fold some laundry.

Son: Mommy you talk to me! Mommy you talk to me! (spoken in between fits of screaming and crying)

Mother: I can't talk to you until you calm down.

Son: Mommy you talk to me!

Mother: What? What do you want to talk about?

Son: Mommy I go play now.

Mother: Ugh. No. You know you have to finish your food first.

Son: (crying resumes) Mommy you talk to me!

Mother: (silence)

Son: Mommy you talk to me! Mommy you talk to me! (Repeated 100 times while screeching)

Mother: What! What do you want to talk about?

Son: I can't talk about this right now.

Mother: Okaaaay. That's fine.

Son: Mommy you talk me!

Mother: You just told me you didn't want to talk.

Son: Mommy you talk to me!

Mother: Okay, I'm going to go . . . somewhere . . . else

Son: Mommy you talk to me! (Repeated 100 more times plus tears)

One basket of folded laundry later:

Son: Mommy you talk to me!

Mother: Okay. Let's talk. I know you don't understand this right now, but irrational is the word to describe the last thirty minutes of our lives. Ir.ra.tion.al.

Son: (throws food on floor) Mommy. Naptime.


The moral of the story: Life doesn't have to make sense. Life just needs to include naps. The end.