Men think they're so cute.
Whenever our four-year old talked about his friend, Luca (spelled with a c), my husband would ask, "Does he live on the second floor?"
I don't blame you for not getting his joke. Perhaps it's a generation-gap-thing but most likely, it's his wry sense of humor. Our four-year old, obviously, didn't get it. I explained to him that "Luka," was a song by Suzanne Vega that was a hit in the 80's. I sang him the first line, "my name is Luka - I live on the second floor".
A few days later our four-year old came home to tell me, "Mommy, Luca doesn't live on the second floor, he lives on the third floor."
I hung my head in despair. "Did you actually ask him?"
"Yeah, Mommy and he said he doesn't live on the second floor - he lives on the third floor."
I told Daddy what he had instigated. He took a step back in disbelief but deep down inside, he was elated. Of course, why shouldn't he be? He manifested his sarcasm through his four-year old son - that's something Satan would do.
Maybe comparing him to Satan is too much but as a newbie dad, he thought it was a good idea to blast Marilyn Manson, Tool or Metallica to get the baby to sleep. Much to my chagrin, it worked. Did I comb through the baby's hair searching for the 666 mark? You bechya!
The apple does not fall far from the tree.
So when our doctor prescribed the four-year old an inhaler for his cough I got a little worried. I wasn't worried about his asthmatic symptoms like a normal mom would be. And it's probably what I should write for appearances. The truth was, I thought about my husband...you know, Satan.
Sure enough, he confirmed what I knew he would think. "It's a bong, man...."
I was perturbed to the point of amusement as I watched the little guy press the pediatric mask against his nose like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet.
The little guy loves Inhaler Time. He loves Lego's and Star Wars and can't go anywhere without a toy or two in his pocket. Just like Daddy...you know, Satan.
And when it comes to getting a shot, the little guy turns into the Exorcist. It's why I had to split up the four he was supposed to get at his last check up.
"You should prepare him, like talk to him about it before he comes." The good doctor said over the phone.
Prepare him for four shots? Talk to him about the sting of stabbing needles and the burn of whatever-it-is the doctor's pumping into him? How 'bout I rename him Jimi Hendrix. That might be easier. Because a few paragraphs ago, I was thinking about renaming him Damien.