Today is the Podling’s third birthday. I am so very glad I did not name him “Phil” or “Punxatawney” or “Groundhog” like the people in the hospital thought was soooo funny. (They didn’t have to live in constant fear that one night, fed up from the constant teasing and very poor jokes about his name, he might snap and come at us with a butcher knife while we’re sleeping. Also, it is possible I worry needlessly about the wrong things.) The issue of what his name would be actually became a possible obstacle to us leaving the hospital at all; funny, they prefer to have the birth certificate completely filled out before you leave.
Unfortunately, the Podling has a cold. It’s right in the nasty phase too, where every time he sneezes, I gag and throw tissues at him to stem the flow of grossness. He hasn’t yet figured out that snot makes my eyes roll back in my head and everything go wavery around the edges, so it is not a control issue yet, thank goodness, and he’ll blow his nose for me.
As a present for his parents, the Podling wore underpants (not diapers) all day yesterday, and remained dry and clean. Hallelujah!! The best present he could give us!
Without further ado, an interview with the Little Man of The Day. Note: “sanah” is what he says when he doesn’t know the word, or when he’s talking to make noise and doesn’t have anything to actually say (for instance, into a toy phone), etc. I call it his “Simglish.” Those who play The Sims will know what I’m talking about.
– How old are you today?
Sanahs sanah is my birfday. Press number three button.
– Okay. I’ll press the buttons, you just tell me your answer and I’ll write it down.
Okay. That’s four, and that’s three, and that’s two, and that’s one, and that’s zero!
– Here, have a seat.
Hey, what’s THIS doing on it? (Removes plastic pan.)
– How do you feel about being three years old?
I’m number three. I goin’ have 5 pieces of cake. I am three. (Holds up four fingers) Oops, that’s four. THAT’S three.
– What would you like for your birthday?
I want sticks. I want happy birthday sticks.
– What are happy birthday sticks?
Because they’re sanahs sanahas, they talk. Hey, I want cheese.
– Okay, you can have cheese. But you have to sit here and answer my questions.
– What would you like to eat on your birthday?
I like dinner.
– What kind of dinner?
– What’s chocolate dinner? What’s it made of?
Chocolate. And candles.
– So, you’d have…chocolate nuggets?
Chocolate NUGGETS? Chocolate nuggets?! I goin’ have chocolate nuggets?
– I don’t know. What’s in chocolate dinner?
Pepper (peppermint) chocolate, and chocolate window (?) cookies. Chocolate cookies. And chocolate cake.
– Do you like other things that are not chocolate?
I like things that are not chocolate.
– Like what?
– What about things that are NOT chocolate?
I like chocolate milk and water and juice.
– Ok, juice. What kind of juice?
Flavored juice. Chocolate juice!
– Come back! We’re not done!
Hahahaha! (Runs down the hallway, eventually is lured back)
– What kind of presents would you like?
A big black present! To go open it.
– Are you talking about the box you just got in the mail from your grandparents?
– What do you think is in the box?
– What do you like to do?
– Not what you like to eat, what do you like to DO?
– Chocolate eggs?
– Ooookay…. Do you like to color?
– Do you like to…do you need to go potty?
NO! (Squirms and grabs his pants, crosses his legs, then runs to the bathroom.) I don’t needa go potty!
And that was pretty much the end of the interview. The Peanut woke up and demanded my flesh, and while feeding her, the Podling got into the cakes cooling in the laundry “room” (it’s a closet, really) on top of the dryer, and destroyed one of the layers. Previously, this was the only reliable place we could hide baked goods, but clearly he has not only discovered the hiding place, but also how to get into it.
I have to admit, I’m very annoyed that he did that. Every fifteen minutes since I pulled the cake mix out of the cabinet, he has asked me if he can eat the cake now. (Why do kids repeat themselves so much? Why do they ask the same question over and over and over and over and F’ING OVER?) Each time, I told him that he had to wait until after dinner to eat the cake. Dinner, then cake, then presents. Dinner, cake, presents. Every fifteen minutes. No, you can’t eat the cake now. No. Have we had dinner yet? No, we haven’t. Thus, no cake yet. No. NO. STOP TALKING ABOUT CAKE. FORGET THE CAKE. (Clearly, I learned nothing from Hyperbole and a Half about children and cake.)
Then, he came to tell me that he had not been doing anything bad at all, cake crumbs all over his very guilty face.
Ugh. I hate being angry like this, because I’m making it about me, not him. This is HIS birthday. This is HIS day. It’s his ruined cake, not mine. He won’t even care, so long as I put it together and slap some frosting on.
Well, kiddo, I hope you enjoy your lumpy, lop-sided, two-and-a-half-layer chocolate cake. If today’s events are any indication, he will refuse to eat the nuggets and fries we specifically bought for him, whine for cake, and when we put him to bed, cry because he’s hungry. For cake.
Congratulations, Podling. You made it three years without dying horribly.
Congratulations, self. You made it three years without…well…you made it three years.