Me: “How do you like your dinner, Ben?”
Benjamin: “It tastes like rotted fish.”
Benjamin: “Oh wait, NO, it takes like yucky poop poop.”
Benjamin: “Actually, it’s delicious.”
Well, then. Flip-flopping at its finest. Take note, politicians.
Me [excitedly]: “Hey Ben, how would you like to travel to Iceland?”
Ben [with conviction]: "No, definitely not."
Me: “But I think we’d really have a fun--
Ben [still with conviction]: “No. They have volcanoes there and I refuse to fall into the hot lava. I will not go to Iceland.”
Me: “ugh...so, I’m going by myself?"
On Monday we were at the park with some friends and Ben tripped on the pavement and banged up his knees pretty badly.
There was blood and hysterics and I clearly wasn’t doing a good enough job consoling him because he elected to get a second opinion on his prognosis.
An ambulance was parked nearby and the paramedics were lounging in the shade, probably waiting for emergency calls. Ben marched over and grimly displayed his wounds.
They solemnly inspected his knees, pronounced that he would likely survive, and offered up bandaids.
Ben was mollified.
Being a parent can be a humbling experience. Ben so desperately wants to engage with everyone and I have a deep appreciation for the fine folk that take the time to converse with my son, even if they can’t always understand the stream of consciousness that pours forth from his mouth. It take a village, peeps, it truly takes a village. Or maybe a city, in our case.