I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
July 12, 2006
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Leave a two-year-old with her father for a few hours and you can expect some unpleasant surprises upon your return. Maybe you’ll find peanut butter tangled in her hair and crammed up her nose. Maybe she’ll have decorated three of your coveted first editions with crayon squiggles.
Maybe she’ll have learned a new phrase.
“Mommy,” my two-year-old said solemnly from my husband’s arms when I returned from the gym, “I have green poo poo.”
Immediately, I looked to my husband, then back at my toddler.
“You what?!”
“I have green poo poo, Mommy.”
Hubs shrugged. “She ate a lot of broccoli yesterday. I showed her what her poop looked like.”
Irritatedly, I took the baby from Hubs. “There is a reason I haven’t made a big deal about what’s in her diaper,” I said. “That’s not a phrase that needs to be in her vocabulary right now.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he responded as Baby and I left the room.
The next day, I took Baby to the supermarket. She munched contentedly on a free cookie until we got to the register.
“You’re a pretty little girl!” the cashier said, smiling at Baby.
Baby grinned. “I have green poo poo,” she said happily.
The cashier’s smile faded. She looked nervously at me.
“She, well, she ate a lot of broccoli!” I stammered.
A few days later, Baby and I met our play group at the local science museum. Excited to see her friends after a few weeks off, she ran to them calling, “Babies! Hey Babies!”
Oh please, I thought, watching her, Please please don’t say it, don’t say…
“I have green poo poo!” she shouted. The play group mommies giggled while my face turned red.
“She stayed with her father the other day,” I explained darkly.
Their laughter turned to clucking and concern.
“It could’ve been worse,” one mom said stoically. “My baby’s started saying, ‘Honey, bring me a beer.”
Husbands. Can’t leave the kids with them, can’t live without ’em.
This post was originally written for DotMoms.
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