I’ve been able to measure our son’s rapid growth by how close his hands come to the faucet on our bathroom sink and where his feet hang on his father as he lays asleep on his shoulder. I’m growing, too - far less noticeably - but I’m taking one toddler step at a time.
Recently, my husband, E., our 2.5 year old son, K. and I met a friend for dinner at this nearby Italian place we like. Our friend, D., had enjoyed a meal there with us before, which we had ended with their homemade gelato.
K. knows that, in Italian, gelato means ice cream. Before we had even ordered dinner, I mentioned that I’d like to leave room for d-e-s-s-e-r-t and asked D. if he thought that he would get g-e-l-a-t-o when we were d-o-n-e. I spelled done because I felt that K., hearing me say, “…when we’re done,” would perk up his bionic baby feelers and ask, “What are you talking about, Mommy?” as he is wont to do!
After my cautionary smattering of spellings, D. replied, “Yeah, I love gelato!”
Genuinely shocked that he would easily level the Castle of Secrecy I’d just built, like a child to a pile of building blocks relishes in seeing another’s careful construction crumble into so much rubble with a swift swipe of his forearm, I gasped, “You BASTARD!”
When he regained some composure, gulping for air between guffaws, D. responded, “You’d… spell…DONE…but Bahhhh-haaa-haaastard’s OK?!”
I tried to explain my logic but it was fruitless. K. never even noticed the laughter, I don’t think. He was too busy saying, “Bastard gelato.”
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