Talking a blue streak
Anyone who knows my boys (all three of them) will tell you that they are talkers. Even The Jake. Talky, talky, talky, all the live-long day. They have this scheme specially designed to drive me to Xanax where all three of them try to carry on a conversation with me at once.
I shouldn't complain. It's so helpful that Isaac and Jacob can communicate with me effectively. Even my two-year-old can be encouraged to participate in decision-making that is rational and fair.
So what do they talk about? What comes out of the mouths of my babes? I've composed the following pie chart to illustrate the composition of conversations in my house. Perhaps then you can see where our real problem lies.
You can see from this that they actually don't want to talk about everything. They just want to talk about poop and weiners. I want you to know, seriously, that this is not an exaggeration in the least, and both boys are equal offenders. It's a little shocking to me because, as you know, I am a GIRL, and poop and weiners are not my native language.
Poop-talk is mostly about how they really, really, want to look at poop. His, mine, yours, everybody's. There is the act of pooping, where Jacob simply must tell me, every time he farts, how "I'm pooping my pants." Lovely. Isaac, every time he sits down to do his bidness, wants me to look. He want me to know what he's made: "It's a whole poop family!"
Oh, but the talk of weiners! I am just so OVER it already. You already heard about how planets revolve around Jacob's wee-wee. Isaac is our master storyteller and likes to weave elaborate plots around his wee-wee. Sometimes it's all, "I'm talking about a place called WEE-WEE town where all the WEE-WEEs walk on the sidewalk and drive cars and tell jokes." Other times he's more like a fire fighter: "WEE-WEEs are like fountains, and sometimes the PEE shoots up everywhere like fireworks all over the ceiling."
It's like, what you might in your worst nightmare expect from one boy? To the power of two when there are brothers. Wee-wee synergy.
For whatever blessed reason, they seem to corral their incessant dialogue of poop and weiners outside the house. I suppose my problem is, then, that I don't want to seem like your stereotypical prudish Midwestern girl. Though I already am, since I tell my kids to refer to their penises as wee-wees. I certainly don't want them to think that talking about your poop or your wee-wee is wrong. But at the same time, seriously, could you SHUT UP about your wee-wee already?
I shouldn't complain. It's so helpful that Isaac and Jacob can communicate with me effectively. Even my two-year-old can be encouraged to participate in decision-making that is rational and fair.
So what do they talk about? What comes out of the mouths of my babes? I've composed the following pie chart to illustrate the composition of conversations in my house. Perhaps then you can see where our real problem lies.
You can see from this that they actually don't want to talk about everything. They just want to talk about poop and weiners. I want you to know, seriously, that this is not an exaggeration in the least, and both boys are equal offenders. It's a little shocking to me because, as you know, I am a GIRL, and poop and weiners are not my native language.
Poop-talk is mostly about how they really, really, want to look at poop. His, mine, yours, everybody's. There is the act of pooping, where Jacob simply must tell me, every time he farts, how "I'm pooping my pants." Lovely. Isaac, every time he sits down to do his bidness, wants me to look. He want me to know what he's made: "It's a whole poop family!"
Oh, but the talk of weiners! I am just so OVER it already. You already heard about how planets revolve around Jacob's wee-wee. Isaac is our master storyteller and likes to weave elaborate plots around his wee-wee. Sometimes it's all, "I'm talking about a place called WEE-WEE town where all the WEE-WEEs walk on the sidewalk and drive cars and tell jokes." Other times he's more like a fire fighter: "WEE-WEEs are like fountains, and sometimes the PEE shoots up everywhere like fireworks all over the ceiling."
It's like, what you might in your worst nightmare expect from one boy? To the power of two when there are brothers. Wee-wee synergy.
For whatever blessed reason, they seem to corral their incessant dialogue of poop and weiners outside the house. I suppose my problem is, then, that I don't want to seem like your stereotypical prudish Midwestern girl. Though I already am, since I tell my kids to refer to their penises as wee-wees. I certainly don't want them to think that talking about your poop or your wee-wee is wrong. But at the same time, seriously, could you SHUT UP about your wee-wee already?
posted by Claire at 9:16 PM
2 Comments:
love the pie chart.
Oh. Good. Lord.
Thanks for the warning.
Boy army indeed.
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