Our firstborn certainly has a way with words. Whether it’s considered ‘the gift of gab’ or just ‘the gift of not-mincing words’, he is honest and often funny. And to the point.
The professor ‘celebrated’ his birthday on Saturday. I use the term ‘celebrated’ loosely because it seems the birthdays are getting increasingly lame, the older we get. These days a birthday constitutes sleeping in until nine. With waffles and handmade cards at 9.01am. And crumbly cupcakes with random numbers of candles buried in the frosting.
At one point the Gort decided to weigh in on the matter of his father’s age. ‘You’re old, dad, thirty-seven is SO old!’ Which made me laugh because I could remember when my parents were thirty-seven and, of course, I thought it was….old.
When I picked up the sage from school today, I asked the requisite ‘so, thumbs up or thumbs down?’ ‘Thumbs up,’ he declared. Which prompted me to ask ‘why’. ‘Because I had a lot of buddies today,’ he shared. Which made me a little happy since the social aspect is my main worry when it comes to his schooling. I figure he’ll learn the ‘other stuff’ easily enough. ‘Yeah, who were your friends?’ I continued. He rattled off several names and concluded by saying ‘I had a whole flock of friends!’
Which literally made me burst out laughing as we walked back towards the car-van. ‘What?’ he asked, innocently enough.
Several months ago, a Facebook friend posted a note her daughter had written. Dear Diary I had the badist day in my life. My mom isn’t the best snowborder. She’s bad. And, ever since I laughed out loud at the indignant six year old’s semi-public rant about her mom, I’ve been waiting for the moment that the Gort would write something of his own.
For a while he was literally drawing wavy lines on lined paper and calling it ‘stories’. Once, he even handed me a page full of wavy lines and ordered me to read it. I had an internal conflict: burst his scholarly bubble or pretend to ‘see’ a story amidst the lines, knowing full well he’d accuse me of reading it incorrectly: as in, ‘the Emperor has no words’.
As diplomatically as possible, I informed him that there weren’t actual words on the paper. Ergo I could not read it. I believe the conversation ended with him accusing me of being illiterate. Typisch.
As his literacy skills have increased, he’s written several notes, but only while I’ve stood nearby, spelling the words for him. ‘How do you say happy?’ ‘H.a.p.p.y’. ‘H.a. what?’ ‘H.a.p.p.y’. ‘Okay, so h.a.p and what comes after the p’. ‘The first or the second p?’ ‘There are two p’s?’
The word ‘tedious’ comes to mind.
But last night my long wait was rewarded with a few little gems that I found scribbled in the tiny notebook he’d received at a friend’s birthday party (along with a green Hotwheels car.) The notebook-car combination was apparently so inspiring, it prompted him to compose this:
a HotWheels Rasr was Rassid I lick tait car. iT is cool iT is gareen.
The professor and I stood by the dining table, trying to decipher the code through our snorts. We decided it had to mean ‘a Hotwheels racer was raced. I like that car. It is cool. It is green.’
Which isn’t nearly as cool as the Gort’s version.