Here, pick a label!

Ah, basketball! The cheerful sound of a ball slam-slam-slamming incessantly on the floor. The energetic screeching of sneakers. The thumpity-thumping of little feet crashing across the room like a herd of angry miniature horses. Children yelling joyfully, parents barking at them to "pay attention."

Nothing here that could possibly overstimulate the child with ... unique sensory processing. Nope, nothing at all.

But what do you do if that child DOES become overstimulated?

It's time for the first ever round of What Kind of Special Needs Mom Are You?, a blog post comprised primarily of questions.

Do you tell people about an "invisible disability?" And when is it appropriate? Do you gather everyone together and boom "YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS" or do you pull someone aside and whisper?

Or do you just put an autism awareness shirt on your kid and figure it'll be obvious that way?
Easy Out Mom

Do you just wait and see whether your son manages to pass as normal?
Anything Could Happen Mom

Do you come armed with educational materials about autism in order to head it off at the pass?
Activist Mom

Do you remain within arm's length at all times in an attempt to control his behavior?

Helicopter Mom

Do you back off in the hopes that he will pay more attention to the coaches than he does to you, the parent?
Wishful Thinking Mom

Do you mention it, apologetically, to the mom who seems frustrated that her kid got paired up with YOURS?
Shame on you, Mom. Shame on you both.

Do you mention it, optimistically, to the mom of the kid you think is also special needs?
Nosey Mom

Do you just nod when someone sympathetically reassures you that he'll "get better at sharing" if you keep coming back?

Weary Mom

Do you wait until your son is crying with his face pressed against the floor because he didn't make a basket and he doesn't get to pick up the purple cone and run it across the gym and get a high five for making a "point"?
Frazzled Mom

Do you wait until the meltdown at the water fountain? Everyone's watching ... it would be a great time for a public announcement.
Monologue Mom

Do you tell them while he's having a meltdown because it's time to leave and he wants to stay in his gym clothes... his shorts... even though it's January and freezing outside?
Mom with the Frozen Kid


I, of course, did not utter the word "autism" or "Asperger's." I hate labels.

Elliott Says (part 4)

Noticing a Trio creation left lying in the living room, I pick it up and observe the handle and long muzzle. I come to an obvious conclusion.

"MUST little boys make everything into guns??" I sigh, exasperated, and turn to my husband and son who are sitting on the couch.

"Mommy, you found my pretend flute!"

Elliott rushes over to rescue his precious instrument.

Toodly kazoo noises follow.

Christmas Reflections, continued

On Santa

Around Thanksgiving, we started hearing talk from our little one about Santa coming.
We .. don't do Santa.
I thought it would be a very simple matter to say "he's pretend. It's fun to pretend, isn't it?"
It was not that easy. The culture of Santa permeates far and near, and it's a hard discussion"Mom," he said, condescendingly, "he's REAL."

We read the book on St. Nicholas. We talked about St. Nicholas. He was a very nice man. But he's dead now. Mommy and Daddy give you all your presents.

Aaaand then we ran into Santa out at the Christmas carnival. Handing out candy canes. Not looking very dead at all.
"What would you like for Christmas, little guy?"
"A pink and purple bus that sparkles."
"Ooookaaayyy--- you know, I've never heard a boy ask for THAT! Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Thanks for the candy cane.

Why don't we do Santa? I have a little guy with an autism spectrum disorder! He gets very tripped up by intangible nonsene (such as Santa Claus). It's also my job as a parent to help instill faith in him and give him the ability to make good decisions on his own someday, and to stand up for truth and justice! I have a valid concern that telling a black-and-white thinker that Santa is real and gives you presents, and then ripping that fantasy away from him at some point, be a bad idea if I want him to teach him about real Truth. Pretty serious thoughts, I know. Overanalyzing? Who, me?

But he really wanted someone to tell him Santa was real, even if that person wasn't me.

So he asked the lady stocking shelves in Payless shoes, he asked the dental hygienist, he asked the cashier at Penneys, he asked his grandparents, he asked his aunts and uncles, he asked his teachers, he asked his friends.

He asked me how Santa was going to put presents under the tree, since we didn't have a chimney.
"He's not real," I explained, "but if he was, he wouldn't be able to come in anyway, because the pipe to our pellet stove is too small for him to fit through."
It was a grinchy thing to say, but it didn't phase him.
He suggested Santa could come in through the sliding door in the back.
I didn't answer.

A week later he asked us about getting a Criss Cross Crash for Christmas (big noisy racecar track). We had already purchased it, but we thought it would be fun to keep him guessing.
"I don't know, bud, it looks like all the stores around here are out of it!"
"Oh, that makes sense," he reasoned. "They needed to give all the good toys to Santa Claus because SANTA BRINGS ALL THE TOYS!"

I said nothing, because it's just cruel to snuff out a child's innocent joy.

It's all those magical, warm-fuzzy Christmas movies, isn't it. They tell us that grownups are too old and tired to believe in the marvelous wonderful truth of Santa.

Was it beginning to melt my cold, grinchy exterior? Was my heart going to grow two sizes and practically explode out of my chest?

Christmas came and there were no presents from Santa.

He asked if I was sure all these presents were from us.
"Yes," I said and pointed to where the tags said Mommy or Daddy, or both.
I received a concerned little look in response.

Later, in the car he asked why Santa didn't come. He seemed sad. I relented.

"Elliott, he's not real, but... " and here I sighed big "... but you know what? We didn't write him a letter. Kids are supposed to send their letters to the North pole so Santa knows what to bring. Next year, I guess, we can write to him." Even though he's not real.

Dear Santa,

Don't expect any milk and cookies.

You're a nice man, but you're dead.

Love,

Helen

Babies and Boobies and Basketballs

We'd been talking about Mary's journey to Bethlehem, and how uncomfortable she must have been, and also a little scared.  When we got to this part in our Advent preparation last year, I remember him having a lot of "babies" and "bellies" questions then, too. Oh, and let me preface this by saying I am not pregnant. I'm not being coy and hinting that I might really be. I'm not. If you saw me downing Riesling at Christmas, you know, without a doubt, that I am NOT with child, and not even gosh, giggle, maybe soon. Nope. I was throwing them back So without further ado:

Elliott has clearly been mulling over the whole Christmas-is-about-baby-Jesus-being-born thing, and had this to say about it:

"Mom, I think a baby is going to pop out of your tummy."
"I think you're wrong!"
"But babies come out of ladies' tummies." Hops up next to me, gently jogging in place on the couch.
"Well, all babies come from a lady's belly, but not all ladies' bellies have babies inside of them."
"Oh." He looks confused and slides onto the floor. I try to explain better.
"OK ok, you know how you can tell? Sometimes, if you see a lady who looks like she has a basketball in her tummy, she's actually having a baby."
*stares at me critically. I stare back, willing him not to say I that look like I have a basketball tummy*
"Mom." Looking at me over the top of his glasses. Don't say it, don't say it...
"What."
"What about these basketballs?" *points at my chest and starts jumping in place again*
My first response is to be candid and say that they're much smaller and not even the same shape- but I realized in time that it wasn't really where a mom ought to steer the conversation.
Rather, I said "WHAT? Um, I mean. That's not a baby. Those are boobies and I don't use them unless I have to give a baby nursies. Remember you used to be littler and you used to have nursies? That's what those are for." Yes, that's all anyone uses them for, no more questions, please...
He mulls this over while doing a headstand against the back of the couch, using one hand to grope at his own chest.
"Mom, I have boobs, too!"
"Yes, but you're a boy, so you don't really use them the same way. You'll probably never give a baby nursies."

... did I just say 'probably'?

Yes. I don't always think so well on my feet.

Joy To The World

So here it is, Christmas Eve for only a few more minutes. Elliott was asleep by 8PM, presents were all wrapped yesterday, and all of the goodies that had to be baked, are baked. There are no church services tomorrow and just a little bit of food prep... You know, I think we might get to have one of those idyllic family Christmases, after all.

Tonight, we attended a fabulous service at our church. It really couldn't have been more family friendly. I've never had to sit through a service with Elliott before, thanks to the Children's Church ministry, and I was a little nervous that we wouldn't make it. Sure, he's old enough, but he's ELLIOTT. He's a noise and a blur... always touching (his newest thing is patting people's cheeks - whether they like it or not) and always commenting loudly on whatever happens to cross his little mind. Like when we walked into church and Pastor John said "Hi! Merry Christmas" and Elliott replied "WHERE'S MY CROWN? I'M A WISE MAN!" Or like, "THAT GUY IS SINGING TOO LOUD" followed by clapping his hand over his ears. Oh and we were sitting right next to the family of "that guy." Lovely.

Oh but, yes. Elliott got to be a wise man. With a purple crown. Appropriate? Well, I guess all the angel parts were taken ;)

He marched right up there with his present, out of turn (the pastor's wife tried to hold him back, but she was far too gentle and it was to no avail). After plopping his gift of .. myrrh? frankincense? Gold? (not sure!) he marched right. back. down. Which wasn't what he was supposed to do at all. Redirected to return to the stage, he raced frantically past wise man #3, who was attempting to deposit the last gift in its place, and leapt dramatically onto the riser. Then jogged in place on the riser for a bit, before it occurred to him to turn in circles. This, of course, made it irresistible to the 2 1/2 year old wise man, who followed suit. The very mature 3yr old just watched them with wide eyes.

Eventually, they calmed down and held their positions, and were soon released back to their parents, after a chance to peer at the baby Jesus, as he was held safely in Mary's arms. The next half hour was quite fun, listening to a sermon with one ear and "I don't really like church!!" with the other.

At the end, our son got to go up and stand in his place once again while singing Joy to the World with the rest of the children. His "joy" was evident...before the music had even started, he had belted out the first lines to Joy to the World, and after the "real music" had begun, he was running and jumping off the steps by the pulpit, pumping his fist, clapping his hands, and running up to the other kids as if to encourage them to express themselves. The whole time singing. His exuberance was unmatched.

Michael and I stood in the second row in our usual position - hands folded, smiling politely, singing just loud enough to count. The only thing unusual was the stream of tears running down my face.

(From laughter.)

I swear he is our kid.

Elliott says (part 3)

With Aunt Marybeth:

Marybeth (reading with Elliott) – “how does the triceratops protect himself?
Elliott, “he eats plants.”
Marybeth, “Yes, he does eat plants, but how does he PROTECT himself?”
Elliott, “He’s twenty feet long.”
Marybeth, “Yes…”

Regarding the new house:
“Elliott, that is NOT allowed in our house!”
After thinking for a minute, “Hey mom, can we get a new house?”

On Drinkin’
Drinking cider with Elliott. "Mom! This cider is RARY good. It's 100 Proof!"
Me, eyebrow raised "100 proof? Where did you learn about juice being 100 proof?"
Elliott, casually, "The grape juice at school says '100 proof' on it."

At the dentist:
Hygienist, “So what’s your FAVORITE color?”
Elliott, adjusting his glasses and replying matter of factly. “Well, God maked me. And God maked me like pink and purple. Those are my favorite colors.”

On The Lord:
‎"Mom, what's Holly Lou?"
"Hallelujah is something people say when they're praising God. How do YOU praise God?"
"Like rabbits."
No hesitation whatsoever.

Holding a stuffed bunny as it "talks" in falsetto, "I have buttons. Jesus made me. And the Whole. Wide. World. See ya tomorrow!!!"

Interesting Perceptions
That China is a land full of toys, because so many of his toys are Made In China. Leading to this very logical question:
“Mom, are DOGS made in China?”

After Halloween
Elliott holding up candy bar "Hi, my name is ButterFinger! What's yours?"
Me: "My name is Butterfinger EATER!"
Elliott, "No. Your name is Mommy. And it's a BEAUtiful name."
Awwwww.

Thanksgiving Morning
Elliott, hopping out of our bed "MOM! the clock says Seven-One-Four!"
Me, from under a pillow, "And what does that mean?"
Elliott: "IT'S THURSDAY!"

Things you might not expect at dinnertime
“Sour cream gives me super powers!”
*rubs it into his hands*

Love-Story
Elliott: "My books came in at school today!"
Me: "I can't wait to read them with you!"
Elliott: "Oh, you love me?"

Another kind of story
"Mommy, tonight I want to tell YOU a story.”
“OK Elliott, go for it.”
"There once was a little boy named Elliott. And he did NOT WANT TO BE OBEDIENT.”

The End.

You can never have too many toy cars...

"Mom!" he wailed frantically. "Have you seen my Goodwrench car?" 

"Your what?"

"My new car!"

Oh right. The little matchbox we picked up at a garage sale.

"Nope, why don't you play with another car?"

"MOM I need it. Will you help me find it?"

You won't believe how long it was before that car showed up.

Really, Elliott, you need more cars.

After all, there are only two on the radiator covers.

(And who knows how many have fallen down under the covers... at least one that I saw with my own eyes!)

Oh look! Here's a lonely little hot wheels in the couch cushion... but you're right. He's not your GOODWRENCH nascar racing replica. You're four and this is really important. I forget these things.

Hey now, look at this! It's Lightning McQueen. Surely he rates above a faceless, tiny race car?

Or what about this Hess car, from Christmases past? He's been sitting in the dining room for days, staring at the play dough set.

And hey, this looks like fun! It's a water park for cars. Set up in the hallway, right where your toys belong.

Right, well, we'll just leave it there. Because... SURELY you can find a car you'd want to play with in your hot wheels car display. (I wonder why it's half empty.)

Oh no, not those cars. How about this bin full of cars?

or THIS bin full of cars?

What about THIS lonely playset?

Look who's hiding in your bed! (yes, I guess a mattress WOULD be considered offroading)

Bathtub cars! No? Because last week you were all about the color changing cars... Goodwrench car. Right.

What about your playdough cars?! What's more fun than rolling tracks in a mound of dough and smushing blue and yellow bits up in a mini cooper's wheel wells?! OK. Moving on.

TV CAR! Left behind when you started to veg out during Martha Speaks, if I recall correctly.

Sorry bud, no Goodwrench car in here. Maybe outside? Let's check the front porch.

How about the deck in the back... maybe it's in the garage!

No, not in the garage, and not in your other spot. Hmm. This is tough.

Hey what's that? Oh, just another pair of matchboxes that somehow escaped the lawnmower.

And this would be... the tree stump covered in ants that you love to play on. Fun!

Sorry bud, maybe you should just pick a different car and go drive it on...
Oh. Sure. That works.

Not Me Monday

"Not Me Monday"... an idea I am borrowing from my favorite Monday blog, Seeking Contentment

Let me tell you exactly what things are like in our home - we have RULES. And you best believe our little guy says "how high" when we say "jump." He doesn't test the limits again and again and again and again to see if we were really really serious that time.


So last night, he knew all about the No Toys at the Dinner Table rule. (It's a good rule.) He didn't plop his tushie in the chair holding Woody from Toy Story. If he had, I would have sternly instructed him to go put that toy in the toybox where it belonged. But he didn't, so there was no issue when we joined hands for grace. It wasn't like I held the toy's hand and listened to it give thanks. That sort of nonsense would never happen here. And if a child were to then hover the toy above his lasagna and make it mutter about how hot the food was? Turn a blind eye? Not me! Engage in a discussion about Woody's missing hat during family dinner time? Not me, either. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere. Too tired to be consistent? Shame on you. That would never happen to me... after all, dinner is quality family time.


Did I just say dinner was quality family time? Right. So.

I did not stop at Stewarts on Friday and treat my family to ice cream for dinner. And we weren't all starving because I forget the meal vouchers when we went to the Great Escape for the company picnic. Not me, I wouldn't forget something important! And speaking of forgetting things, I did not smirk a little when I realized that Michelle (coworker) almost forgot her own vouchers after repeatedly reminding me about my own. Nope, I'm not that kind of lady. And when we wearily and happily left the Great Escape, after snacking on only smuggled crackers and apples, it wasn't me who decided that ice cream would be a proper meal. So, as you can plainly see, it was NOT my fault either when the ice cream dinner turned out to be a race my four year old was having with me that I knew nothing about. I can also promise you that, when he saw me take the last bite (that I did not wolf down noisily), and howled STOP BEATING ME as though he were, in fact, being beaten and not just losing an ice cream-eating race, I absolutely did not laugh out loud with a mouth full of waffle cone. What kind of mother would react that way? Not this one.

Dignity. I handle things with dignity.

The next day, when my son came up to me and announced in a loud voice "ROUND 1, FIGHT!" and put up his dukes, naturally I explained to him that violence was not acceptable in our loving, Christian home. I certainly did not bellow my husband's name, accuse him of corrupting our child, and stomp away. That sort of aggression? Emphatically not me. Furthermore, when my child repeated this behavior the next day, I did not pull a 180. I explained again (I swear!) in my quietly angelic voice that we do not put up our dukes like we are going to punch our mommy. Under no circumstances did I laugh at the innocent little one and raucously assure him "Knock yourself out, Buddy, but Mama is the Megaboss, I would OWN you." Who taunts a four year old; besides, he doesn't even know what a Megaboss is! Therefore, as I'm sure you already guessed, I concluded my morality lesson by teaching him an appropriate Bible verse, and it most certainly did not end with me swinging my puny opponent around by the feet and depositing him headfirst on the couch. Heavens, no!

Mom, Can I have a drink?

Warning, it will hurt you to read this. This isn't "cute things my kid says" it's more like "someone please tell me this is just a really annoying phase, emphasis on phase."

Other disclaimer: we are working on Listening and Not Interrupting People skills. Unsuccessfully, duh.

"Mom, can I have a drink?"

"Sure, what would you like to drink?"

Louder, "Mom, can I have a drink?"

"What would you like to drink?"

Frantic, "Mom, can I have a drink?"

"Listen. To. Me."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?"

"What did I say?"

"I don't know!!! I don't know what did you said?!!!"

"I said, what would you like to drink."

"I would like juice."

"O--"

"Juice! I would like juice."

"--K"

"I would like juice, Mom!"

"OKAYI'MGETTINGYOUSOMEJUICE!"

"Thank you"

"You're --"

"THANK YOU!"

"--Wel--"

"Thank. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU"

...

Elliott Says (Part 2)

Putting Elliott to bed a few nights ago:

"Mommy, do you have a big [boy parts]?"

"No, I'm made a little differently than you are."
I begin panicking and pray PLEASE don't ask for more details PLEASE don't ask.--

"Oh, your pee pee is in the back and you poop in the front?"

"Um, no, that part is the same. Hey, isn't Toy Story 3 coming out tomorrow?"

---------------------------------------------------

Singing a song from Children's church...

Who's in church today, church today, church today
Who's in church today
What's your name?
Kintzakahoon!
HIIiiii Kintzakahoon!!!

Who's in church today, church today, church today

Who's in church today
What's your name?
Pujo-Pujo!
HIIiiii Pujo-pujo!!!


Aaaaannnd on and on with the unpronounceable names :P

----------------

You probably had to be there, and hear him say it, to realize what a compliment this was:

"I love my mommy and my daddy and my grandma and my aunt Marybeth and ... I LOVE MY OLD GRAY POPPOP!"

On your mark, Get set, PRAY!

One of the things that we do, as Christians, is pray. We routinely pray before bed and meals. One of the things that we do NOT do, as non-denominational Christians, is the sign of the cross, or genuflecting, or that sort of thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, I was raised with the sign of the cross… but if Elliott starts doing that, he’s really going to look like an oddball among his evangelical peers, and we prefer to conform. Ha ha.


Actually, it’s nothing I’ve ever given a lot of thought to, until now.

Living with my parents means family mealtime, and a big family prayer. Before last night, there was always comedy at prayer time, but it was usually because Michael tended to get the spot next to Dad, and then when everyone went to hold hands and pray, there would be that awkward moment.

Last night, Elliott watched my parents do the sign of the cross before praying, and decided to give it a try. (This should give you some insight as to what goes on in the mind of a curious four year old.)

He rapidly fanned himself while yelling “On your mark, get set, GO!” rattled out a prayer before anyone could say a word, and then smacked his hands together with gusto and shouted “AMEN!”

Asthma

Still exhausted from 3 days in the hospital with little guy.

Not really sure how we ended up there, it started with a doctor visit. A quiet listen with the stethoscope. A breathing treatment. The doctor is saying "we can't do anything else for him here" and for some reason I tell him we are doing this Autism walk tomorrow, does this mean we can' t go, and the doctor is saying. "No. You don't understand." Next thing... I am sitting in a wheelchair, in the elevator, in the hospital, holding my lethargic child. A child who normally cannot sit still for a whole 60 seconds. But today, he just wants to be carried. I settle him on the hospital bed, and he looks at the nurse sadly, sighs, as she draws blood and inserts an IV. Falls back asleep, after protesting briefly about wearing pajamas (the hospital gown) during the day time.

Now it is the middle of the night, and I am listening to the IV drip like a freaking coffee percolator all.night.long. Phones ringing and machine dinging. Haven't left this tiny room except to move the car. Wrapped around his little body in a bed too short to straighten my legs. "We don't really encourage cosleeping" says the nurse, who doesn't push the subject after I say "Ok." and stay put. Michael won't leave either, sleeping in the pullout chair next to us. Something is still wrong with Elliott's sleeping. He breathes in quick little pants, not long, calm breaths. My sister listened to him, at home with a stethoscope, and said "asthma." I said no. This kid can run for miles.. but I took him in anyway, and now here we are.

I lay with my ear against his face, afraid to hear his breath go all fast again. It is still too fast for me to settle down and sleep. I lay still and stare at him. Smooth down his hair. Kiss his cheek. Rub his tummy. Check that his IV line is not tangled or caught on something. Rinse and repeat. Every time someone walks in I sit up tensely, and watch, asking questions. What is his oxygen up to. What are you doing with that IV bag. At 3AM, Elliott wakes up screaming and coughing in pain and fear. He is soaking and feverish. The nurse gives him tylenol, and I promise him that it will make him feel better. Then I pray to God that it really will make him feel better. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the insurance went into effect, like it was supposed to today, or if we will be paying for this for the next ten years. So I pray for that, too.

The next day is an improvement, except that Elliott can't wait to leave "the hossable." He is up at 6am singing at the top of his lungs. All of the other families smile politely and close their doors. We guiltily close ours as well, to lock in the happy shouts. A nurse comes by and takes him out of isolation - h1n1 has been officially ruled out and he is allowed to have a friend visit. Gwynnie comes by to play, our pastor's wife comes to pray.

We watch a million VHS movies and color pictures and play with trucks. My parents watch Elliott while Michael and I take a lunch break. During a meal I can barely eat, everything starts to hit me. Michael holds my hand and says a prayer, right there in the restaurant. My eyes continue to well up. No more sitting and feeling bad. It's time to go back and be a mom again.

In between The Little Mermaid and Arthur, Elliott gets a trip to the hospital playroom. It is a Big Deal. The nurses crack up as he hops out of bed in his little red sneakers, triumphantly pulling the IV pole. Michael discovers foam swords and cars. Joyful shrieks ensue.

The following night is better. Elliott's breathing is calmer. I sleep for three hours during the early morning.

The doctor comes in and listens to Elliott breathe. "I hear kitties and doggies inside you!" she says, in her perky I-work-with-kids voice. (I'm not judging her. I have one of those voices, too.) Elliott looks at her dubiously without commenting. Later, when the nurses remove the IV and say "Look what's going to come out!" he stares at the back of his hand like he just might be expecting doggies and kitties to come marching out.

We are released with a nebulizer kit and a book about asthma. I call the insurance company and, when I confirm that we are indeed covered, I profusely thank the customer service rep, who actually seems to care that my son is going to be okay.

Discharge involves dragging my son out of the playroom, where he is having a swordfight with 3 student nurses.

That was almost a week ago, and yes, it has taken THIS LONG to have a somewhat coherent accounting of it.

Elliott says

As we wait for Daddy to come home from work.

Elliott says, "Mommy, I love Daddy."

I reply, "I love him, too. That's why I married him."

"Oh, can I get married?"

"Well, when you grow up, maybe you will meet a nice lady."

"But Mommy, when I grow up, I am going to be a dog."
==================================================

Elliott has just been put in time out. Through his tears, the stubborn little boy is trying to think of something shocking to say to me. Out of that sweet little mouth comes his version of cussing, a line from Toy Story:

"S-s-s-omeone's p-p-oisoned the WATER HOLE!" he sputters.

Different day, but again, in Time Out.

Me "Time out, mister! When the [digital] timer looks like oh oh oh, you can get off of the chair."

Elliott matter-of-factly correct me: "Zero zero zero"

===================================================

Describing a sunset:
"And the sun climbed up a ladder and SPLATTED on the window!"

===================================================

Elliott's version of following directions.

Mommy says "How many times do I have to ask you to do something, before you actually do it?"

Elliott, thinking, "Four."

===================================================

So, we get "Go Potty Go" from the library, hoping for a poop breakthrough. We didn't get one. But he did like the potty song. The potty song goes like this:
"Babies need diapers, and that's okay. I'd rather be a big kid doing big kid stuff all day."

Elliott's version goes like this "Babies eat diapers and nuts. OK?" And then he trails off..."Mommy does Gwynnie [younger cousin] eat popcorn? She eats butter in her mouth."

===================================================

Preschool teacher to me, "Elliott told us you're having a baby. Congratulations!!"

Me "What."

===================================================

Elliott receives a balloon animal at a Christmas festival. He peers at it intently. At last, he speaks.

Er, bellows.

"I AM A TALKING ELEPHANT. I WANT TO GET PAID."

====================================================

Age is one of those intangible things. When in doubt, just change it.

"I'm 21, Daddy, can I have a drink of a beer?"

"I'm 12 now Mommy, I'm just going to sit in the front seat, ok?"

"Can I drive? I am 16."

"Mommy, I'm 4, I can have coffee now!"

Yeah, that last one... we may have told him that it's cool for 4 year olds to drink coffee. You know, when he was 3 and that 4 year old mark was just eons away.