My father makes macaroni sauce from his old family recipe. It takes a whole day. When my just-turned-2 yo got it for the first time, we made a big deal about getting sauce with her macaroni. We took it home for leftovers, and she got to have more the next day (she loves macaroni, which she calls macarooni).
Her dad asked what she was having for dinner.
ValleyGirl yelled excitedly, “Macarooooni!”
I prompted her, “With what?”
She yelled with equal excitement, “Plate!”
:smack:
Then there was the other day when MrValley was reading her a bedtime story. MrValley speaks to her solely in Swedish, and was reading in Swedish. He pointed to a picture of a butterfly and asked her in Swedish what it was.
VG: Butfly!
MV (in an encouraging voice): Kan ValleyGirl sager fjäril? <Can ValleyGirl say “butterfly”?>
VG looks at him very seriously, and in an encouraging little voice says, “Can Pappa say butfly?”
When Ivygirl was little, we went camping with my folks in their RV. My stepmom and I took Ivygirl to the campground showers with us.
Being a little girl, she wanted to shower with Grandma. So Grandma cleans her up and sends her over to me so she can shower herself.
Ivygirl comes into my stall (it’s one of those with a “dressing room” outside the actual shower, so one can undress in private) clutching the towel about her little body very tightly. I chided her, telling her not to be so silly, she didn’t have anything Grandma and I didn’t have.
Without missing a beat, she declared very indignantly (very loudly, to the amusement of the other women in the shower) “Yes I do! Beauty!”
When my goddaughter Mara was about two and a half, she was standing in the hallway drying off after a bath, looking at the crucifix her mom had nailed to the wall. I don’t know how much religious instruction she’d gotten at this point, but all of a sudden she must have put two and two together, because she pointed at the crucifix and screamed, “Mom! What happened to Baby Jesus???!!!”
Last year, when she was five, she spent a few nights at my house and was watching TV with my mom while I took a shower. My mom told me later that when a PSA about drunk driving came on, Mara couldn’t figure out why you shouldn’t drink and drive. Then finally she declared, “I know why - if you’re drinking with a big cup, you won’t be able to see the road in front of you!”
My boyfriend’s cousin was playing with him, jumping on him and stuff. Suddenly she ran over and leapt into his lap, hard. His siter-in-law said “Watch the jewels, now.” And the girl said “I see no jewels. Where are the jewels?”
Our three-and-a-half-year-old had been looking forward to having a baby sister, and we’d been preparing her for it for months. I was certain that we’d covered all the bases pretty well. The first time she got to hold the baby, she looked up at her grandma, eyes filled with wonder, and asked, “Who’s gonna be her mommy and daddy?”
I took my 8-year-old nephew to his first ever live football game, and he was just about jumping out of his skin with excitement.
At half time, as agreed, we made for the merchandise stand to buy him his very own footy jumper in the home team colours.
We were second in line, behind a rather well-endowed young lady (20-ish) and her mother. The young lady was trying on a jumper but was unsure as to whether it would fit her OK, and we watched her struggle to try it on for size (which only made her, um, well-endowed-ness even more obvious).
Still not sure, she turned in the direction of her mother and us, and asked us all in general, “Does this look too tight on me?”.
Without a second’s hesitation, my nephew shouted in a very loud voice, “HELL NO!!”.
Hilarity ensued. Well, I guess he just said what I was thinking. 8 years old, going on 18…
My wife asked my two year-old “What’s your favorite kind of food?”
“Cookies.”
“What kind of cookies do you like best?”
“A lot of cookies.”
On another occasion he said “Chicken’s not meat, it’s called ‘chicken.’”
Recent favorites from the four year-old:
“Mommy, is there a Timbukone since there’s a Timbuktoo?”
I was putting together lunch one day and commented that we’d have to go to the market soon, as the pantry was getting low. His response? “Oh, dear. I guess we’ll have to sell our cow, Buttercup” (a la “Jack and the Beanstalk”).
This happened to a mate of mine. He was taking his son to his first footy match. He was excited about it before he got there, but after 60 odd minutes was getting fidgetty and restless, asking if the match is over yet. Finally my mate turns to him and says,
“Mate, it’s not over until the fat lady sings.”
This stops him in his tracks and he puzzles silently over the meaning of the phrase until after the match, when they are walking out of the stadium. In front of them is a rather overweight lady.
“DAAAAD,” he cries, “Is that the…”
My mate can tell what’s coming next. “Err…come on, it’s this way.”
“But Dad, I want to hear her sin…”
“Come on now, keep up,” and trying hard to to piss himself laughing.
This happened recently with my 16 year old son. It was early in the morning, stumbling around the kitchen as I do when I’m getting ready for work. Ivylad had had a good night’s sleep (he has back issues) and was in a fairly upbeat mood.
My son looks up from his cereal and eyes us suspiciously. He then asks, “Dad, did you have sex last night?”
I whip my head around, shocked, and Ivylad, laughing, asks why he would ask. He replies, “Well, Mom’s tired and you’re in a good mood.”
I don’t remember this one personally, but it was my parent’s favorite story until the day they died.
I was 3 when JFK was killed. Mom & Dad said that I was getting ready t watch a favorite TV show, and pulled up my little rocking chair in front of the TV, sat down and started rocking, waiting. What came on intead of Captain Kangaroo (Or whatever it was) was a special report on Kennedy’s funeral. They said I crossed my arms over my chest, stopped rocking, and said, “Well son of a bitch.”
Mom & Dad said they both doubled over, laughing too hard to correct my cursing. Almost makes me wish I’d had kids.
Apologies for repetition, as I know I’ve posted this before.
When he was five, my little brother won two fish at the local fair. As could be expected from carny fish, “Fishy” and “Foshy” (he was allowed to name them) weren’t in the best of health, and only survived a few months before simultaneously expiring of some nasty fungal infection.
My brother, learning about death for the first time, was surprisingly curious, rather than devastated. Rather than bury them, my father decided to flush them down the toilet, so my brother accompanied him to the flushing with a little bit of ceremony. A few hours afterwards, he asked “do they take them out?”
“Do who take what out?” aked my dad.
“The men who take out wees and poos, do they take fish out too?”
A couple days ago, another one from my coworker’s daughter…
Usually she doesn’t address me. I assumed she either didn’t know my name or couldn’t pronounce it. (it’s easy enough to pronounce once you’ve got it, but most adults get it wrong initially and most kids can’t say it.) which I really just ddin’t think much about.
So the other day, I noticed that her mom would refer to me when talking to her by a sort of babyfied nickname (the first sound of my name, repeated. So if my name were actually Dorothy, it would be Do-Do) which I thought was sort of cute and assumed the baby made it up.
We weren’t busy and we had no customers in the building, so the baby and I were playing… I picked her up and sat her on my shoulders, and we got a call so I had to stop playing and work. I put the little girl down and she protested. Her mom said, “Do-do has to work now. She can’t play with you.” and the little one, in a snit, shouted, “her name is DOROTHY!”
That reminds me of an adorable little girl at my church. She and her family had been away for quite some time (in Seattle where her older brother was undergoing treatment for leukemia). After church, she was sitting in a chair while her mother was busy chatting. One of the older ladies approached her and asked, “How are you doing today, Christina?”
The little girl looked up at the lady and replied, in no uncertain terms, “My name’s not Christina. It’s Christine!”
Avarie, speaking of kids and all, have you had yours yet? Do we get to hear your own personal stories here soon? Maybe even in this thread?
[sub]I suppose I really ought to know whether or not the kid was born, because I found out later that she was unknowingly pregnant at our IndyDope (or was it HoosierDope?), but I don’t remember how long ago that was now. Also, I love it when the subtext is longer than the actual post.[/sub]
