Now that my sweet little 3yo has been promoted to the Preschool II class (one step away from "da big kids class", the ultimate in the preschool hierarchy) they have been intensely studying the alphabet, recognizing letters by sight and sound and learning words that start with each letter.
"B" seems to be one of Adam's favorite letters, so tonight after his bath I decided to quiz him on some words that start with B.
I thought he'd turn his sweet little face up towards me and say, "B is for boy" , or "B is for ball", or maybe he'd even be able to remember "B is for backpack".
Instead, he said:
B is for beef. Which is gross when you take it out of da package and make it into dose things dad puts on the gree-uhl. Then when dey are all done dey are burgers. And dat starts wiff B too. And we put dem on buns and dat starts wiff B too. And I don't wanna talk about B anymore.
Then he told me my face is gross.
Then he asked me to body slam him.
The tender moments of motherhood.
(And obviously I am not referring to my face).