"Look, Mom, I'm practicing being safe by not running into the street and getting hit by a car."
"Look, Mom, I'm practicing being safe by not falling down the stairs."
"Look, Mom, I'm practicing being safe by not walking with my eyes shut so I won't get hit by a car or fall down the stairs."
To be honest, I'm not even sure why I paid for the camp. Sounds like he knew everything about being safe already.
(Well, maybe except for the part about how to properly block a punch that your sister throws at you as you dance to music from Vacation Bible School. Anytime I hear the lyrics find somebody with a need/give it away/share a blessing as you receive it, I can't help but think that Nat must believe Daniel has a need to get sucker-punched with her fists of fury, the blessings upon her arms. I'm not sure if they covered self-defense in Safety Town.)
Eve will benefit greatly from Safety Town when she is old enough. She has an appetite for destruction and no matter how much she feeds it, she stays hungry. I can't imagine saving her from cancer and then having her die from something stupid like lighting herself on fire as she burns pine straw in our citronella candle. (I'm not playing with fire, Momma, I just like to burn things! Very flammable things!)
And sometimes I'm convinced she just likes to play mind games.
Eve: Mommy, where's your boyfriend?
Eve: Mommy, where is your boyfriend at?
Me: Daddy isn't my boyfriend, he's my husband, and he's sitting right there.
Eve: No...your BOYFRIEND! Where's your BOYFRIEND?
Me: I don't have a boyfriend.
Eve: Yes, you do.
Me: No, I don't.
Eve: Yes you do. Your boyfriend, Brandon.
Me: I don't know any Brandons.
Eve: Yes, you do. Your boyfriend Brandon comes over during the day.
This conversation lasted far longer than I care to admit. Why do I even argue with a three-year-old? Maybe it's the strange looks my husband is throwing me. That's the stinkiest of eyes, right there.
Eve is going to be the one that starts rumors at school, I just know it.
But as for a real rumor, I totally heard a boy ask Natalie out on a kid-date. The boy's name is Tyler, who Natalie says is a boyfriend, but not a BOYFRIEND, literally just a friend who is a boy. Who she is going to marry if both of them aren't married by the time they are in the third grade.
Tyler: Hey, Natalie. My friend and I are on a t-ball team together.
Natalie: Oh, that's cool.
Tyler: Uhh, so... [puts hands in pockets, looks down at feet, shuffles said feet, turns bright red] Do you want to come watch me play sometime?
Natalie: If my mommy says I can.
I hope she says that if he asks her to marry him in the event they are both single by the time they hit eight.
I can't imagine how old they must think we are, having waited until our twenties to tie the knot. She'll feel old one day. It will come out of the blue. Like, being labeled as someone who would enjoy being on some crap-music list and getting email notifications about the upcoming Michael Bolton/Kenny G concert. Those are two heads of craptastic hair producing two kinds of craptastic music that I would only listen to if the Macarena were unavailable for download. I don't know which one of you signed me up for such things, but surely you know I'm going to find out and get you back. Or maybe my entire address book in case I can't narrow down the perp. Either way, some/all of you are going to pay.