Thursday, January 11, 2007

What I’m Talking About

One of the most useless rejoinders my husband throws at me in conversation is “What are you talking about?”, always expressed in a tone of slight frustration. Would I be overstating my case if I said I hate it?
Allow me to give some examples of how it is used:

Me: Boo only slept for half an hour this morning. I think she’s going to be cranky.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Geister needs his snow pants for preschool tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring them.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Your parents called this afternoon. You’re supposed to call them back.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Hey, do you see yesterday’s paper? I haven’t read it yet.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: It’s cold outside.
Him: What are you talking about?

The answer to the query of what am I talking about is always exactly what I’ve just said.

So it was to my dismay this morning when, as I was handing Boo a mum mum, Geister looked at me and said, “Mommy, what are you talking about?”
At least, unlike his father, it was not frustration that provoked this question. It was honest, it was sincere, it was of the moment. It was also a little misplaced, as I had said nothing whatsoever.

It was a reminder to me of how our children are a product not only of our genes but of the environment we provide for them. They do what we do, say what we say. Just last night, Geister and his daddy were running around throwing and catching balloons, and I could hear him say “Fumble-itis!” when he missed his catch, or alternatively “Fumble-ruski!” These are the unique lessons (i.e. words) he’s learning from his father. These are not phrases he’s likely to hear outside of our loving home. (He’s sure to pick up the word “smurf” as well from his father which can be used in place of any word whatsoever, as an adjective, noun, etc.—We are leaving early Saturday morning for a road trip. One could say we are leaving at the crack of smurf.—Try it at a party. It’s fun. Honest.)

I wonder what lessons and mannerisms my children are learning from me. Truthfully, I’m too close to tell . . . and maybe I don’t want to know. Do I want someone to notice that my son often walks on a veer, like I tend to do? Or that my daughter rubs her nose like I do?
Hmm, no I don’t.
Note: These are potential examples only and not related to any real life ticks I may or may not have.

4 comments:

bubandpie said...

I'm sneaking in a few blogs while my mom plays with the children, and my shrieks and hoots of laughter just brought her running downstairs to see what was going on.

Is my mom allowed to know about your blog? (she asks belatedly...)

The other day Bub was dropped something and as he bent to pick it up I heard him mutter, "Oh, crap." I could have sworn his father was in the room.

Mommy-Like Days said...

I haven't got a policy on this yet--but yes, your mom can know :)

Honestly, I think that Mike provides more fodder for blogging than either of my kids.

Her Bad Mother said...

"Crack of smurf." Hee hee.

bubandpie said...

I just told hubby, "You should read MLD's new post!" and he said, "Why? Does she slam Mike?" Hehe. It really is the best kind of humour.

And last Sunday, we were at the in-laws for supper and Bub looked around the table and said, "Where's Mike?" Your husband has a special place in my son's heart. (Either that or he was thinking back to Christmas dinner.)