The Conversationalists

My children are talkers. Not just talkers--they're conversationalists.  No amount of cheesy crackers and juice can distract them. They wax philosophical. They work on statistics by taking informational polls. On rare occasion, they talk between themselves and leave me (blissfully) out of things. And, most mornings, they make me most grateful that at least one of them is headed to class.

Monday, 8:14 a.m., approximately 4 minutes from school:
"Mom, we are not under water creatures." "Yes," I reply, "this is true." "Did God make all these cars? How did he make them?" (I think I just got whiplash from the change in subject.)

Monday, 2:46 p.m., 2 minutes upon entering the vehicle:
"No!" (as I quickly jerk left and right to see who or what I'm about to hit). "Don't look Gigi! It's Diesel 10--he's kind of scary!" It's nice that he protects his sister, but the kid has a spot on Broadway waiting for him with all of the d-r-a-m-a.

Tuesday, 8:17 a.m., approximately 10 minutes from school:
"Mom, when are we going to see Elmo again?" The child was 2 when we saw Elmo. I'm amazed he remembers it.

Tuesday, 8:19 a.m., 8 minutes from school and 2 minutes post-Elmo:
"Mom, sometime can we get a pet for someone who wants a pet but who doesn't have money to buy one?" How do I answer this in 8 minutes?

Tuesday, 8:20 a.m., 7 minutes from school, 3 minutes post-Elmo:
"Sometime, can we watch some cartoons?"

Tuesday, 8:27 a.m., RJ has left the vehicle. The silence is deafening. And delightful.

Tuesday, 2:40 p.m.:
"Someday, when the mirror breaks on the van, can we get a car like that?" Looking over at the adorable little convertible, I sigh, "Someday, RJ. Someday."

Wednesday, 8:15 a.m.:
"Mom, what do brakes look like?"

Wednesday, 2:45 p.m.:
"Mom! We found a crack in the school wall today, so we filled it with an ice cube!" I bet his teachers were proud. I know I am.

Wednesday, 2:46 p.m.:
"Mom, sometime when I turn six, will you buy me some skis so that I can ski on snow?" Perhaps. The little man does need a way to go gather his ice cubes I suppose.

Monday, 2:51 p.m.:
"Who in this car can climb trees? Raise your hand if you can climb trees!"

Wednesday, 8:25 a.m., 1 minute after learning that he has a peanut butter sandwich in his lunchbox: "Let me explain what you're gonna make for pasta in my jar. There's two kinds: ravioli and pasta salad. Pasta salad is the one with three colors and grapes. Can you do that for me?"  I'm speechless.

Thursday, 8:13 a.m.: Gigi to RJ: "I wanna go gym-nastics!" RJ: "You can't. The door is locked right now." Gigi to mommy: "I need mommy to open it!" Because mommy is magical. Then again, mommy broke her wand in a fight with a mean wizard, so her powers are limited. (I still don't know how I'm going to worm my way out of that one--the saga continues.)

Sometimes, they're just charming:

Thursday, 11:45 a.m., naptime: "Mommy, pleeeeease can you carry me? I too tired to walk!"

And sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm only their nanny and that I get to take them home to their mother at the end of the day:

Walking into Walmart, approximately 8 high school boys standing nearby, RJ asks, "Are you wearing your new sports bra?" "Uh-huh," I reply in hopes that distracted disinterestedness will eliminate his need to elaborate. It doesn't. "Oh," he announces, "that's good 'cause the other one left skid marks on your chest." And that is why you never (ever) use the phrase skid marks in front of a five-year old boy. On the plus side, there are now 8 high school boys who have been either thoroughly entertained or thoroughly scarred for life.