Kids Say the Darnedest Things… And mine are gunning for me specifically

It occurs to me that it has been a while since I’ve properly reported on the wild things. Life has a way of moving fast enough that you forget to write down the things that make you laugh so hard you have to sit down, and then one day you’re walking to the creek and one of your children tells the other one to “walk the plank” and you think — I need to get back to writing these down.

So consider this your field report from the front lines of parenthood, where the comedy is unscripted, the roasts are personal, and nobody cares about your opinion but they’re going to loudly give you theirs anyway.

Let’s start with the youngest. He came into this world a comedian, and I mean that in the most literal sense. From his earliest days, he had a bit. A whole bit. He would call for me — loudly, urgently, as though the house were on fire — and the moment I appeared, he would flash the most enormous grin and announce, “NeNe, Mama.” Which, loosely translated, means “No, not you. I want Mama.” If you grew up watching certain television in the nineties, you’ll recognize this as the “Not the Mama” treatment. He was Not-the-Mama-ing me before he had a full set of teeth. “NeNe” became my name for several years. Not Dad. Not Daddy. NeNe. I answered to it. You do what you have to do.

His devotion to Honey Doodle is something to behold. He loves his mother so completely and so ferociously that he used to lay beside her, and the moment she’d glance away — at the television, at her phone, at literally anything that wasn’t his face — he would take both of his little hands, physically turn her head back toward him, and say “Look at me all the time.” Not some of the time. Not when you get a chance. All. The. Time. Honey Doodle, to her credit, mostly complied. I would have, too.

Now, the youngest and his older brother have the kind of relationship where they are best friends and mortal enemies depending on the hour. Recently, during one of their less harmonious stretches, the youngest marched up to Honey Doodle with the gravity of a man filing a formal complaint and announced that his brother was “acting like a sussly version of himself.” We both had to try our best to handle the issue without bursting out laughing in front of our crying child.

During the pirate era when my oldest truly believed he was captain of a pirate ship, we were walking to the creek, the youngest slipped and fell. His older brother laughed. The youngest stood up, dusted himself off, pointed a finger, and said, with complete composure, “Walk plank, boy.” Just like that. No yelling, no crying. Just a calm, measured sentence that essentially said: you will be dealt with at sea.

I love watching the elder wild figure out the world. He processes everything out loud, which is a gift to those of us who are paying attention. We were once at a home school conference and had to leave him in childcare. It was his first time being away from us for any period of time and his first encounter with teenagers. When I picked him up I asked him simply if he listened to his teacher, he shot back, “She’s not a teacher. She’s a kid who looks like a grownup who tells me what to do.”

I have met several adults I would describe exactly the same way, and I didn’t have the vocabulary for it until a four-year-old handed it to me.

He also has opinions about bedtime, which he shares freely and without being asked. When I told him once that it was time to get ready for bed, he looked at me with the kind of disappointment usually reserved for people who have been deeply wronged and said, “You’re being mean to Mama’s kid, and when I’m done, I’m going to throw you in the trash can.” I want to be clear: I was not being mean. I was being a father. There is apparently no meaningful distinction.

Another time, I informed him it was almost bedtime and he held up one hand and said, with the exhaustion of a man who has had this conversation too many times, “Oh no no no. Let’s not start up about this.” I don’t know where he heard that phrase, this was in the days before he even watched television.

While on a walk shortly after he learned how to walk, he announced that he could smell the stop sign. I made the mistake of engaging with this. “What does a stop sign smell like?” I asked. He didn’t hesitate. “It smells like stop.” I have been thinking about this answer for years and I believe he is correct.

His brother slipped on the bathroom floor one morning and, in the fog of embarrassment, immediately turned and shoved the elder wild thing, apparently operating on the assumption that someone must be responsible and the nearest person would do. This was during the pirate years, so the oldest straightened up, looked his brother dead in the eye, and said, “Don’t you ever push the captain!” The pirate years were fun — but they are responsible for about 20 percent of my gray hair.

His first encounter with Peeps — those marshmallow Easter confections that inspire either devotion or horror — resulted in a single bite, a long pause, and the verdict: “Too many sugars.” He is not wrong. He has never been more right about anything.

When I tried to negotiate dinner by offering him four big bites of pizza, he looked at me with genuine concern and said, “I’m not a really huge fan of big bites.” I respect the self-knowledge.

A running joke between me and the youngest wild thing came when he first learned about knock-knock jokes. The schitck would go something like this:

WildThing 2: Knock, Knock.
Me: Who’s there.
WildThing 2: Ummmmmmm…… lemon Me: Lemon who?
WildThing2: Beat you!

It didn’t matter if who was there was lemon, orange, potato, tomato, or choo-choo, the joke always ended with “beat you.”

Honey Doodle and the oldest were making cookies together with cookie cutters recently, which is the kind of wholesome activity that looks wonderful on paper. At one point, she held up a cutter and said she wasn’t sure what it was — some funny-looking creature, she said. The older wild thing studied it carefully and asked, “Was it Daddy?” I was not present for this exchange. I heard about it secondhand. I have not fully recovered.

His brother, meanwhile, has been developing his own brand of comedy, which leans more toward elaborate schemes and deadpan delivery. At dinner one night, he got angry about something — I honestly don’t remember what, these things happen fast — and announced that he was putting all three of us on a ship headed out to sea. Once we were gone, he said, he’d be taking the oldest’s piggy bank and heading to the toy store. It was a complete plan. It had logistics. I was almost impressed. It fell apart when we asked how he planned to get to said toy store.

More recently, he learned that someone had said something he didn’t appreciate and, came to me with a proposal. “Next time she comes over,” he said, “let’s tell her we’re going for a ride and drive her out to the dump.” If being a comedian doesn’t work out for him, he has an excellent future as a mob boss.

We were telling someone we’d recently met that we homeschool, and the little comedian, sensing an opportunity, chimed in immediately: “I’m real smart, too. Did you know 1+1=11?” His delivery was solid.

When the youngest was very small, I asked him once if he was my teddy bear. He shook his head and said, very seriously, “No, I not a teddy, I not a shark… I not a teddy, I not a shark, I bay-bee boy.” He then finished his speil by sucking on his fingers.

Kids do say the darnedest things, and mine are no exception. Comment and tell me some of your favorite things your kids have said over the years.