A few weeks ago, my three-year-old son was cuddling in his mother’s arms and sweet-talking to her. He’s been extra affectionate lately as his baby sister has taken up a lot of our attention.
Son: “Mom, I’m the little baby mouse, and you’re the mama mouse.”
Mother: “Oh, honey, that’s sweet. Thanks.”
Son: “…and Daddy is the daddy mouse.”
Mother: “Oh, okay. Sweet.”
Son: “…”
Mother: “…”
Son: “…”
Mother: “And your little sister?”
Son: “MY SISTER IS A RAT!”
In France, seven years old is considered the “age of reason”. Apparently, my daughter has this on her mind a lot leading up to her birthday.
Daughter: “Mummy, what is the age of reason?”
I think about how best to describe this to a child.
Me: “It’s when children can stop and think about their emotions and decide if they want them to control their actions.”
Daughter: “What does that mean?”
Me: “Do you remember when we had to leave the park yesterday, and you got upset and angry because you wanted to stay? I explained that we had to leave so that Mummy could start making dinner? Without reason, you are just thinking that you want to play, and you cry when you can’t. With reason, you think about the things that Mummy has to do, and while it would be nice to stay in the park, you agree that it is sensible that we leave the park.”
Daughter: “I think I understand.”
A week later, she wakes up on her seventh birthday and tells me with quiet authority:
Daughter: “Mummy, I think the age of reason starts at eight years old.”
I’m driving my kid home from school, and I ask him how his day went.
Kid: “We were all talking about what our parents did for work!”
Me: “That’s cool! You told them that Daddy is a lawyer?”
Kid: “Yeah, and that you were a mistress!”
I turn around as quickly as is safely possible.
Kid: “Why are we going back to school?”
Me: “To talk to your teacher.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Because I’m a seamstress, kid, not a mistress. Seamstress.”
Our six-year-old has started the year with a new teacher. I’m meeting her for the first time on the school run.
Teacher: “Oh, [Son] made a memorable contribution to the class discussion about nicknames. His father has an interesting one, apparently.”
I immediately realise what she’s talking about. My face drops.
Me: “Oh… Oh, no. Our family has a strange sense of humour, you see, and… well…”
My husband’s nickname for our son is “Mummy’s Little Tumour”. The teacher hands me a small printout from the Internet.
Teacher: “He said his father’s reasoning behind the nickname is that he grew inside you. The more correct technical term would be ‘parasite’. Hopefully, this printout will clear some things up for you.”
The teacher has printed out a bullet-point list of the characteristics of parasites and tumours.
Teacher: *Smiles* “See you tomorrow!”
My husband has now started to call our son “Mummy’s Little Parasite”.
When my son was three years old, we noticed the smell of burnt plastic coming from our heater vents. I called one of our friends who worked in heating and cooling, and he came over.
Our furnace was in our crawl space, so he went down. About fifteen minutes later, he asked me to hand him three black garbage bags through one of the vents, so I did so. He came up later with three bags of plastic toys. I had wondered where all my son’s toys were going.
I asked my son why he was putting toys down the vents.
Son: “Mommy, there are alligators down there, and if I don’t feed them my toys, they will eat my sister.”
