My son is a small boy.
He says so. I don't know how he came up with that evaluation but that's what he says most of the time. Randomly ask him throughout the day if he's a baby and he'll snort at you at how absurd that statement s and respond, "No! I'm a small boy!" But of course his sense of the size of things is still being developed. I fine example being that he hasn't stopped going on about playing with a Thomas the Tank Engine toy at his sister's dancing class. To get some idea of what kind of toy it was I asked if it was big or small. He said small. Then I asked if it was the same as various sized ones that he owns - starting with one about the size of his mother's purse. But no matter what size I offered him he said, "yeah - that size." Initially I thought he wasn't understanding but then I realized he was employing the same sort of logic as Australian aborigines when they count. I don;t know how true it is but I recall learning on a nature show that some aborigines have numbers up to about three, and then after that it's all known as "more than three." So my son was essentially saying that compared to a house that yeah - it is about that size.
Speaking of size look at this behemoth. It's one of my daughter's carrots that we'd pretty much left after they'd been piffling small again this year. Yes it really is almost as big as her entire head.
Last night in the bath my daughter continued the current hilarious word-humor. This time going the obvious but still-funny route of telling her brother that shampoo doesn't actually have any poo in it. He looked very amused but still couldn't hide the fact that he has only just realized that the word poo is definitely hidden right there in the word - therefore it must have poo in it. I in no way helped him out here. He looked at me and shrugged with his hands turned up - physically asking a blunt, "what..?" for me to explain. So to comfort him I told him shampoo is so named because the magical cleaning ingredients in it are tears from Shamu the whale, and carefully sieved turds curled out by the Sham-wow guy - brewed with only the finest German cabbage (and you know the Germans always make good stuff). After learning that he's regularly watched the rest of his family wash their hair with a fistful off Vince Offer's "William Riker" he was somewhat reluctant to let me wash his hair . But I let his sister wash my head and that gave me the opportunity to get him clean as well in the melee. Oddly my daughter claimed her shampoo was made with vinegar and "Billy" - although quote what part of Billy went into my shampoo was never explained. Although she did worry shortly after by immediately recounting how she had milked a wooden goat at the state fair.
I'm also trying to get to grips with my daughter going in the fridge. I've been almost entirely in charge of what she puts in her gob for years - but now she's old enough to just open the fridge up and grab stuff. To prepare for this we'd made up plastic tubs of carrot and celery sticks, divided up grapes and packaged crackers into snack-size bags. But with full-access to the delights of the fridge I've wandered in the kitchen to find her eating the rest of a jar of maraschino cherries or suspiciously old pickles. She's not gorging on them - but evidently the shelf they are on are at eye-level because she's been clearing all the stuff like that. She's also quite happy with the idea she can get her own drinks. The only proviso I gave her was that if the gallon bottle of milk isn't half empty to please not try pouring it out. So far she hasn't spilled any. But she's had to take matters into her own hands with cups because she reach them - so I keep finding her with an almost-full disposable cup with more milk in it than a rice pudding. To be honest on the one hand I'm quite pleased that I'll no longer have to listen to her desperate, clearly-nonsensical, pleading to get something to eat after she's eaten five different things already. The oh-God-I'm-starving trembling that she affects when she does it is beyond irritating. Especially as she is fussy about what she gets during those moments and can never ever offer a single idea as to what she would like to eat. So it's nice that she enjoys going in the fridge and getting a sensible amount of fruit and veg, or crackers to nosh on. But it suddenly feels weird - not threatening but like a strange invasion of privacy - to go in the fridge and find that something I'd been leaving to eat till later on has been eaten already. I suddenly have the feeling that someone is eating my food. I should make it like university and write my name on all my stuff.
Although if this is going to be like university at some point I'm going to end up being asked by campus security if I know anything about the very-dead jellyfish in the bathroom upstairs.