Kids Say the Cutest Things

From the day my daughter was born, I eagerly anticipated her first word. What would it be? When would it be? I didn't have long to wait, but it wasn't exactly what I expected...

"NO!" not so much spoken as screeched. Loudly! And often. She loved that word. I hated it. Eventually, of course, her vocabulary broadened. Around the age of 2.5, she began to say the most wondrous things. (I WISH I had kept a journal. If you're a new mom, please do.) I couldn't wait to hear what she would utter next. She coined new and amazing terms for everyday items. For example, hydrogen peroxide became emergency bubbles. That is so logical I have to wonder why it wasn't called that from the beginning?

Ever the drama queen, she once leapt onto the fireplace hearth holding a cup of water. She took a huge swig, stretched her arms wide and joyously declared, "Tastes like chicken!" If you'd ever tasted my overcooked, under-seasoned chicken, that statement would make perfect sense.

I suppose she came by her precociousness honestly. I was a blue-eyed, blonde-haired three year old with chubby cheeks and dimples. Quite adorable, or so I'm told. Every Sunday, my grandmother prepared a bountiful feast for the entire family, and about once a month the pastor graced us with his presence. As luck would have it, he was in attendance to witness the most disgraceful behavior of my three-year existence. Now, I don't like English peas. Never have, never will, and my mother should have known that. She was, however, quite insistent this particular Sunday that I should eat my peas. I was just as adamant I would NOT. About the thousandth time she presented the forkful of legumes in front of my face, I shoved it away and shouted, "I don't WANT those damn peas!" The silence was absolute as every eye in the room swerved to the delinquent toddler. My mother's face was filled with horror, my father's with laughter. I was absolutely delighted with the crowd's reaction. My grandmother just shrugged it off and said, "Give her some corn." What the pastor thought of us I don't know, but it's a story that's been told and retold through the years.

My younger daughter, not to be outdone, has her own chapter in the family storybook. We were living in El Paso when she was five years old. My in-laws had come for a visit, and I, my daughter and my mother-in-law were out sightseeing. Somehow we took a wrong turn and ended up in Mexico. At that time, Army personnel had been ordered not to cross the border because of the terrible crime rate, so I didn't want my husband knowing we had gone there. I looked my daughter in the eye and ordered her quite sternly not to tell her daddy we had gone to Mexico. That evening my husband got home from work and little Willow ran to him, jumped in his arms and gave him a hug. He said, "Hello Baby. What did you do today?" Without skipping a beat she replied, "I don't know but one thing's for sure. We didn't go to Mexico." Boy, I got into trouble, but that incident became a priceless family story.

I would love to hear your stories. Drop me a line.