Lost at Sea and A Sinking Ship

I am trapped in a world of verbal mutiny. I have one child who is innately very good at expressing herself. She happens to be the youngest (3 years old), so her use of certain words can get garbled and confused (as kids that age are still learning about proper contexts and whatnot) but while also maintaining a confident adult quality. For example, this afternoon I asked the girls to clean up the sea of Old Maid cards that were scattered across our living room floor. (Which, by the way, they don't know how to play... they only like the 4 Fat Lady cards that make them roll with laughter. Darling children, I know.) When Neve became distracted by sun-lit floating dust in the window, I tried to pull her out of it by reminded her of her job. Her answer?

Neve: "You see, Mom, if I pick up the cards, I'll be destroyed."

Right. What was I thinking?

And another example (all in a day, mind you): As they were taking baths tonight, I heard Fiona say, "Don't tell me to 'shut my mouth', Neve. That's not nice." I walked into the bathroom and looked menacingly at my youngest, not saying a word. Neve begins stammering for an explanation.

Neve: "Ok, well, here's the thing. I said 'shut the door', but Fiona's ears hear 'shut the mouth'." Shrugs, "It's just crazy."

Me: In my lawyer voice, "Did you say 'shut your mouth' to Fiona?"

Neve: As matter-of-fact as one can be, "Yes I did."

And lastly: We sit down to dinner this evening. Fiona reminds us all to bow our heads in prayer. Neve's love for dumplings overrode any restraint to wait those 5 long seconds it takes to pray, and Fiona promotes herself to Prayer Police yelling, "Neve's eating! She's not closing her eyes or bowing her head! Do you even love God, Neve!?"

Neve: With the guts of her dumpling dangling from her mouth she replies coolly, "Sort of."

My inner Jerry Falwell was unleashed.

Me: "'Sort of'!?"

Neve: Now sucking the guts into her mouth, but still cool, "'Sort of' now means 'yes, alot'."

My other grammar anarchist is different, but equally frustrating. She was a late-bloomer, saying her first words when she was well into her second year. I've said it before, but she once shared an uncanny similarity to Koko the Gorilla. Since those days of sign language and word-associations, she's actually grown into a very articulate little girl. She's shocking and funny, even when she's completely serious. So how does she frustrate me then? Back-handed compliments, that's how:

Fiona: "What is this?", holding up a pink Sweet and Low packet that the dude at the coffeeshop slid into the bagel bag.

Me: "It's yucky stuff- chemicals that are kind of like sugar, but can make you even more sick." (I'm just reinacting our conversation, not preaching. I promise.)

Fiona: "If it's yucky, why do people put it in their coffee?"

Me: "That's a good question. I guess it's because some people really want to be skinny. It helps make people skinny, I think?"

Fiona: Without skipping a beat, "You should put it in your coffee!"

{pause}

"...not because your fat... just your butt... I mean, you're beautiful, but if it makes people skinny?... I love you, pretty mama."

And again today: Me, Fiona, Neve, and Mike venture to the feed store to pick up some chicken feed. On our way home, we stopped by my uncle and aunt's house to see their horses and the goats. Fiona is fearless around these huge creatures. Mike is a bit more cautious than her. And Neve and I cower in the back of the barn, as we watch Fiona stand on a bucket to feed them, pet them, and brush their manes with what looked like large shoe shining brushes.

Fiona: As her outstretched arm strokes the side of Marigold's mane, she compliments me with, "Her hair is only a little prettier than your's, Mom."

Awesome.

And this one dates back over a year now, but it's that memorable: Before their increasing awareness of body parts and their need to talk about them all day long, I would join them here and there for a bubble bath.

Fiona: "Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, baby?"

Fiona: "I can't wait to be big enough to make the bath water high, just like you do."

Aw, thanks, kid. That was when I knew family tub-time was o-v-e-r... when I became the tub equivalent to a water park's Ragin' Waves.

While one child is learning how to appropriately use the vast lexicon around her, the other is using it to bail water from her sinking ship. I absorb all of it all day, trying to appreciate how temporary it is. One day, they'll know exactly how to use their words, as they argue their love for their loser older boyfriends in Camaros, or whatever. I better go prepare now.