This morning before school, my son was fumbling through the “junk” drawer (one I’d just organized a few weeks prior and have kept neat, I might add). He comes across my husband’s Steeler’s Watch that needs a new battery, this big honkin’ piece of stainless steel with a leather strap, and attempts to slap it on his wrist, eleventy-billion sizes too big. I make him aware of this, ironically he wasn’t aware how much he was being weighed down by such a trinket, and put it away.
A few minutes later, we’re about to climb into the family minivan for morning drop-offs, and he finds the cheapo watch I picked up at the Houston Airport (I was without a phone charger and since I didn’t want to be late for my flight after a 3-hour layover, I picked something up super quick and cheap). He was immediately enthralled, it was just his size, same silver face with black strap (just not as cool as hubby’s with the Steeler emblem on it). He asked me to put it on him. I obliged.
Little did I know what I was in for.
“Mommy? Did you know it’s ninety-fwee o’cwock (93 o’clock)?”
“Wow, no I didn’t, baby. 93 o’clock, you say?”
He stares at the watch a bit while I drive. A few seconds later he calls out to me, “Mommy! It’s now eweventy-one.”
“Okay baby,” I respond and giggle to myself.
I reach a traffic light, seeing the glimmer in his eyes, how big he feels having this watch on his wrist. “Hey, what time is it now, baby?”
He brightens even more so, quickly checking his hand. “One five” he says.
“Oh. Thank you baby, we’re right on time.”
“We are?” He sounds surprised.
“Yup! We sure are!”
“Otay,” he sing-songs to me as he checks it again.
“You know, mommy, numbers awen’t reaw (aren’t real).”
At this point, the door opened, he unsnapped his buckle and before I could even attempt to figure out where he was going with that statement, he was out the sliding door of the van, backpack on his back, calling out to me “bye mommy,” as he waved to me, proudly, with his floppy watch on his teeny hand.
As if mornings weren’t hard enough. I can’t be expected to contemplate things of this sort before approximately 2 cups of coffee have been poured down my throat. (By the way, if anyone wants to attempt to take a stab at deciphering his statement, be my guest. My still brain hurts.)
Never miss a thing! Subscribe today for all kinds of crazy parenting fun!