Son: I can't Daddy. My foot hurts.
My daughter wants to be a weather girl. By the way - that's what she calls it. Not a meteorologist - but a full-bore weather girl. So that's not me being a borish, old-fashioned sexist there. I told her that the name weathergirl was for the type that was prevalent in the 80s on morning British TV who had no qualifications of any kind to sort out weather models - but just had long hair and tits. So she countered with the point that what she wants to do is find out where tornadoes are and then send those nutters from Tornado Chasers there so she can warn people about them. When I asked her if she didn't prefer to actually drive into a tornado she responded with, "no - I want to tell people what to do." Smart girl. Clearly taking after her mother there.
My son is also evidently getting smarter. I can tell because he's spent most of this morning trying to slot the word, "estimate" into a sentence. Annoyingly it's been things like, "Daddy - I estimate that you're stinky." Fortunately for me though his sister interrupted that joy by trying to teach him the son, "He's big, he's round. His bum drags on the ground. Daaaaaddy!!!" To be honest if he comes back before I leave for work and tells me he estimates that my arse is too big I will genuinely feel pride.
Obviously with my son having spent the formative years of his life with me at home it has meant that he takes after me more than he does his mother. So instead of a solidly empirical, analytical nature he's more creative and artistic. Which probably explains why he insists on wearing his pants backwards. And it's not just some flimsy, one-layered commitment to this either. He keeps slipping his underwear off and spinning that around as well. Which looks absurd but I've let him get on with it purely because this at least gives him practicing in getting dressed by himself. Still - he looks like a turnip.
And don't try and tell me he's "cool" for doing this. Because it instantly brings to mind the early 90s pre-pubescent, shit-hop nonsense of Kris Kross. And they were patently ridiculous. After all they did actually use the line, "wiggida wiggida wiggida wack" repeatedly in that song.
Anyhoo - perhaps this will lead to an end of his feeble excuses for when he doesn't want to do something for himself. A prime example being that he can't be bothered to go and get a book or toy himself because, "my eye hurts." Actually his preference is to say his legs hurt when he refuses to finish his dinner or breakfast. Which reminds me actually of more evidence of his artistic bent. I came into the kitchen (steady...) the other morning to discover that instead of eating his oatmeal he'd painted it. Admittedly the only evidence left is one small blob of reddish-pink - but considering I caught him literally red handed I know what was going on.
To be fair to him that might have been an accident. He could have been trying to paint the table or floor and it inadvertently got into his breakfast. And I only say that because he'd done such a spectacular job of pouring paint onto both floor and table (plus the chair and his own leg) that the whole paint-on-oatmeal thing could just have been collatoral damage. But then he did confidently gloat about how he'd painted his oatmeal - so I'm going with my initial claim.
Right - I need to convince my son to stop, "estimating" that his sister is a poop.