The other day our neighbor, Susan, came over. The moment she walked in the door Zoey began talking at her.
“Susan! Susan! We ran out of Italians! But then we got some new ones — the Italians are in the freezer!”
Susan nodded her head, eyed the freezer, and said uncertainly, “Yes, well . . . it’s always good to have Italians,uh, around?”
Zoey nodded her head in agreement. “And later? When Tessa comes over? We can eat one!”
I could see Susan beginning to form an image of me as a serial killer who targets Italians and then keeps them in her freezer. Susan’s daughter, Courtney, is in fact married to a “real Italian guy.” Before Susan could start backing towards the door to go put her house up for sale, I screeched, “Italian ices! She’s talking about Italian ices!”
I hastily put away the butcher knife that was gleaming on the counter. Susan looked relieved. Just so you know, I had been cutting up eggplant. EGGPLANT.
Zoey is three so she often doesn’t say quite what she means. And when Zoey is awake she is talking constantly. CONSTANTLY. WHich can lead to a lot of mix ups. She’s very stream of consciousness. The kid has no filter. None. Often I am good at following along, but other times I’m left going, “Whaaa?” while drool drips off my chin. Here are some snippets from our dinner conversation with Zoey last night . . . and my interpretation:
Today I looked up the lady with all the babies on her. This is a reference to a picture in the book, “Tell Me Again About the Night I was Born.”
He didn’t see the car and the car didn’t see him. Ah, yes. The continual year-long discussion about how our cat died last summer.
Did we start as full people or no legs? Um, what? Hey look! Something shiny!
One time he made a cake and it burned up. A reference to the book, “Babar Bakes a Cake.” Don’t worry, after he burns it up he goes and buys Celeste a cake from the bakery. And yes, I still find it disturbing that Babar and Celeste are COUSINS.
Our cat licks her own butt. This is self explanatory — and is always followed by lots of laughing.
We like our chips bare. Zoey and I like to eat chocolate chips plain.
Rapunzel rapunzel let down your vagina. Uh, I got nothin’.
Can you say tweekle-do-ga-lee-lo-fee? I can! I can! Where’s my prize? Is it chocolate?
Remember when that bear combed his hair? A reference to the Raffi song, “Down by the Bay.”
My ____* is twinkling. I have to pee, like, RIGHT NOW. * Word removed to appease Demetri’s gentle sensibilities.
Next time I don’t need you. I’ll just go under the rope and then jump. Next time we go to Gramme and Pop-Pop’s pool my daughter doesn’t need my help (even though she can’t swim). She’ll just go under the rope (even though she refuses to put her face in the water), climb up the ladder and then jump in like me (I do excellent cannon balls).
Remember when you had to cut my toes off bc they were too big? Again, I am not a serial killer. Recently we had to cut the ties off a pair of Zoey’s footy pajamas because her feet didn’t fit inside anymore.
Granny collects worms! Granny composts.
Zoey doesn’t talk with me, she talks at me. All. Day. Long. I love to hear her voice and her opinion on, well, everything. But by mid-afternoon, I’m exhausted.
Preschool starts in 95 hours. 5,700 minutes. 342,000 seconds. And on Monday you won’t be seeing any weepy Facebook status updates from me. Nope. I’ll be busy running through the streets yelling, “Freedom!!!!! FREEEEEEEEE-DOM!” Then eating a celebration brownie while I enjoy the sweet sound of silence.