One night recently, my son Eli presented a familiar request. “Tell me a story about me when I was little, Mommy.” Since he’s not quite six, I fought the urge to say, “One time when you were not quite six, you asked me to tell you a story about you when you were little.” But I held it together and responded with one of his favorites: things he used to say incorrectly.
“Well, buddy, you used to say ‘fighter fighter’ instead of firefighter and ‘cornament’ instead of ‘ornament.’ You called croutons ‘hay’ because they looked like hay bales to you, and you insisted that pine branches were called ‘brooms.’ And after we had a rabid bat and several regular bats in our house a couple of years ago, you thought they were actually called ‘rabbit bats’ and ‘tiger bats.’ Oh, and you thought ‘cheese’ was plural for the longest time, so you’d ask for ‘a bowl of shredded cheese’ but ‘a slice of chee.’”
Eli laughed hysterically and then said, “Tell me another story about me when I was little.” I panicked a little at that because I only have so many stories that come to mind easily. Now, I realize that I should literally have nearly six years of stories stored up there. But most of those cells have turned to mush from sleep deprivation, unnecessary information like my student identification number from college, and eight separate viewings of the entire series of Alias.
Thankfully, Facebook exists.
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