My three year old is wise beyond her years. She plays with older girls at the park. She chats up grown ups. Old ladies love her so much they want to turn her into a porcelain doll. She is sweet, and lovely, and absolutely scathing in her observations of the world. Just yesterday, while I was loving my new bob, she cocked her head and popped her hip saying, “Mom, your haircut is cute. You look like the guy with the chocolate factory.” I know I should be flattered that I was compared to an A-list actor, and Johnny Depp is so pretty, but not as Willy Wonka. Or Willy Wanker, as my son calls him.
Of course I laughed my ass off. Speaking of my ass, while folding laundry last week she holds up a pair of my underwear, describing them as gigantic. Mom, your breath is stinky. Mom, your belly is squishy. This dinner is gross. Am I worried she’s going to be this descriptive with others? Not really, as she seems to reserve her brutal honesty for family, which let’s be honest, is healthy and normal. Besides, my undies are pretty big, my hair does look like Willy Wanker’s, my breath did smell like coffee, and my belly isn’t as toned as I would like. That dinner, though? It was good, and for that comment she earned a conversation about being polite.