Quack Quack Story:
One morning this week, WickedHubby decided to let me sleep in until 9. This was a huge help since I was hugely pregnant. I was groggily opening my eyes when I heard the following exchange:
Hubby: WG, I am going to run to the potty. Be good.
WG: Ok.[FLUSH followed by Hubby footsteps back toward the living room]
Hubby: WG!! What are you doing?! (I am told she was eating her food out of a bowl like a dog. At the call of her name, she pulled her face out of the bowl and it was both covered and dripping with milk in a look that rivaled Santa…) YOU are a big girl! You do NOT eat like that! You use a spoon! You are NOT an animal!![WG thinks for a second then looks right at her father.]
WG: Quack, Quack, Quack!!
Football:
I am not a big fan of football. I honestly just don’t understand the rules of the game, never played it myself, and for that reason have trouble finding passion about it. WickedHubby on the other hand went to a big football school (sort of…), grew up watching local NFL, and loves the game. In an attempt to give me some time by myself to get things done, he watched an NFL game recently with WickedGirl to “teach her” the game. At age 26.5 months, I’m not so sure she is going to pick up the finer points of the game, but she did watch. She became extremely disturbed by the experience. I know this because she was yelling “HE FALLED!”, “HE PUSH?!”, “NO SHARE?!”… It never occurred to me that football basically breaks every single rule that you learn in the first few months of preschool… but sure enough, WG was seriously upset. WH explained to her that it was alright, and that it was a game. Later, when he was helping her learn to throw a tiny foam football, WG hit him. He looked at her and she said, “It ok. Foobaah a game…” Ah… How does one argue?
