Last night, James came home from a six hour play date, and he was completely amped up on frosting and fun. My two-year-old had spent the entire afternoon with his good friend Max, he was sporting a sassy looking tweety-bird pull-up, and he was dropped off carrying a greasy paper bag filled with mini-corndogs and french fries.
Now I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that James experienced the toddler equivalent of spontaneously losing thirty pounds, and marrying a swimsuit model with a trust fund.
It was a good day.
It was very obvious that James was overexcited the moment he swung open our front door and stumbled inside like a mini-little drunk man. Rather than taking a moment to collect himself and tell me about his adventures, he walked into the living room, grabbed hold of his enormous book wagon, and wheeled it into the kitchen.
"James" I said. "Why'd you bring the book wagon in here?"
"I happy" he replied. "So I well frow da book in da kishen!" (translation: I'm happy. So I'll throw the books in the kitchen!)
And before I knew it, the kitchen floor was littered with thirty-or-so board books, Goodnight Moon had landed in the dish-filled sink, and The Foot Book was floating sadly in the dog's water bowl.
James observed his work, flashed a mischievous smile and proclaimed, "I not done yet! Now I well stind en da wagone!" (translation: I'm not done yet! Now I will stand in the wagon!)
"James buddy...don't stand up in the wagon. It's not safe. You could..."
And he interrupted my sentence by falling backwards and smacking his head on the linoleum. It really was a sad sight--thirty-nine pounds of my extra big toddler, lying in a pile of crinkled up books, and screaming with the intensity of an overtired zoo animal.
I picked him up, straightened his lop-sided afro and asked, "Are you okay, pal?"
"No Moyee. I not otay. My hayo urts." (translastion: No Mommy. I'm not okay. My hair hurts.)
So I gave him a kiss on the head.
"And dis urts" he said--lip quivering, as he pointed to his rear end. "Moyee, you need ta kiss my bum. Pwease Moyee, kiss my boddum."
"You want me to what!?"
I don't suppose that line of toddler speak requires much translation. You read it correctly--my two-year-old son asked me to kiss his butt. And I'm embarrassed to admit, that without a split second of hesitation, I puckered up and made it happen.
Please. Someone knock some sense into me.