Mahi Mahi was on the menu for dinner tonight. Both muppets chowed down in a serious teenage-boy-in-training fashion, while Finding Nemo played in the background.
(Yes, I fed my children fish while their anthropomorphized dinner just kept swimming on the screen. I know. Mother. Of. The. Year.)
Itâ€™s crazy how big they are now. Theyâ€™re like real little people. Itâ€™s just completelyâ€¦
â€œBashi?â€ offered Destroy helpfully.
Jon and I looked at each other. Because that sounded a LOT like Batshit.
And thus our family conversation at the dinner table commenced. I marveled at how exciting it is to watch the muppets discover communication. Kind of. (Weâ€™ve previously discussed the need for translators and interpreters.)
Me: Search, would you like some Cheerios?
Search: Yesh peez.
AND SUDDENLY CHEERIOS MAGICALLY APPEAR. SORCERY!
Jon: What do you say?
Search: Peez. <nodding furiously> Mo peez.
Me: You want a grissini breadstick?
Me: Here you go. Say â€œThank you.â€
Destroy: No. Soo! Sooooooo eenie.
Me: You want TWO grissini?
Jon: <Breaks breadstick-thing in half> One. Two!
Please know I am in no way trying to brag or overstate my newfound language abilities. (Thatâ€™s right â€“ I said MY language abilities.) But although I am by no means fluent, Iâ€™ve become pretty decent at conversational toddler. Of course, one must never get too overconfident. Because, as a friend reminded me, the muppets speak a different dialect of toddler. They speak twin.
Sometimes itâ€™s all crystal clear:
Destroy: Ewww. <points> Dyer. Bruddo STINKY!
Me: Yes, sweetie, we’re changing brotherâ€™s diaper.
Destroy: All duhn. ALLDONE! Pat.
Me: Yes, those are pants. Actually theyâ€™re shorts. But close enough that youâ€™re obviously brilliant. And more importantly, not stinky.
However, far more often than not, the two of them will speak in complete sentences. Then theyâ€™ll look up expectantly. At which point I’m like, “Yeah, kidâ€¦I got nothing.â€
Theyâ€™re fully continuing an ongoing conversation and are truly flummoxed as to why youâ€™re not responding appropriately.
Search: Mamee sick aka wahrt. Daw warell dumma gum ehhhhu neico. Ahahahahahaha.
Destroy: HIiee! Ah ah ah. Mo mo pishie!
Search: Yeah. <nodding furiously> Shi Shi. Shi Shi.
Destroy: Guwal cahrrrr cah? Noooo. Buh blll. Yay! Buh blll. Momeeee?
Me: Umâ€¦ You want a cookie?
Search: <Gives look that clearly reads, “I love you mommy. But seriously?! So. Dumb.”>
Suddenly out of the blue, Destroy announced MICKEY MOUSE â€“ with full clarity and enunciation (pronounced MickaMOWse for complete accuracy here).
We now have proof heâ€™s my son.
(Full disclosure, while Jon and I laughed hysterically and asked where he learned that, Destroy marched over, picked up his stuffed Mickey, grabbed the remote, climbed up on the couch, wrapped himself up in the Mickey blanket I got for my 16th birthday, and proceeded to turn on the Disney Jr. channel to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. The one thing he says perfectly and he thinks weâ€™re clueless.)
P.S. He learned it at school. Itâ€™s â€œMâ€ week. Education works.
P.P.S. Just wait until â€œNâ€ week and he realizes he ate Nemo for dinner. (Any corporations out there interested in sponsoring these posts? Weâ€™re gonna need to pad that therapy fund something fierce.)