“William, eggs don’t understand whining.”
William’s understanding of traffic lights:
Dad: “William, what does a red light mean?”
D: “And what does a green light mean?”
Actual conundrum: how am I supposed to teach William the concept of “you” and “me”? Understanding one seems to require understanding the other…
William has a textured book to teach how things feel. On the picture of a doll, the textured section feels like William’s stuffed raccoon. According to William, that doll is, in fact, a raccoon. My son is a 16th-century scientist.
William possesses the eery ability to identify Jeeps on sight from several blocks away. And not just Wranglers (the stereotypical Jeep); he calls out generic Jeep SUVs. So far he’s only been tricked by Hummers, which just gives me another reason to not like Hummers.
I asked William to tell our dog, Hiccup, that he was a good boy. William told me I was a good boy. I promise I wasn’t fishing for compliments.
William spent most of our morning walk smelling my hair. When asked what my hair smelled like, he said “hair!” I guess that’s good?
It’s nice that William—through yelling and banging things together—reminds me it’s okay to let an email sit for a while. The world won’t end if I go play with my kid for a bit.
How is William so much more gentle with other dogs than he is with Hiccup?
I don’t know if I can accurately express how infuriating it is to tell William he’s done something wrong and inform him of his consequence, only to have him actually laugh in my face, smiling the whole time, as he goes on to do something else.