Friday, February 3, 2012

Outrageous Claims by Team Stimey

Quinn has this way of being that requires him to talk all the time. I know that I am very lucky to have a child who is so able to express himself and be so adorably charming, but there are times when I just feel that it must be SO EXHAUSTING to be him. I can't imagine talking all the time like he does. I would have to nap a lot if I were him.

The problem is that he requires someone to answer him—nay, agree with him—after he makes his statements. I know this because every sentence that he speaks ends with, "Right, Mom? Right?" He will repeat that until I say, "Yes, Quinn."

Then, if I agree with him, which I sometimes do automatically without even thinking about it, he will make a follow-up statement, which concludes with "Right, Mom? Right?" as well. And so forth.

I get in trouble when I become present three or four sentences in, when I realize that Quinn has been saying things that I shouldn't really be agreeing to. If you are a parent, you might have had this happen to you.

But what I am here to talk to you about today is that even when I am listening, I get into trouble. Quinn escalates quickly from logic to outrageously ludicrous claims.

I have made up this conversation to show you what it is like to ride in a car with Quinn. Even though it is an imaginary conversation, I guarantee you, this is EXACTLY what it is like. (We talk about star dust a lot. And candy.)

topics: easter island

Quinn: Purple is a color. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Mmm hmmmm.

Quinn: Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Yes.

Quinn: Is that a yes, Mom?

Me: YES!

Quinn: Orange is also a color. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Yes.

Quinn: Your favorite color is orange. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Yes.

Quinn: The sun is orange too. The sun's favorite color is orange. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Well, I don't know if the sun—

Quinn: Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Yes, Quinn.

Quinn: The sun is made of solar flares that make star dust. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Well, there are solar flares on the sun and—

Quinn: Everything is made of star dust. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: What do you mean by star dust? There are atoms—

Quinn: Star dust is really, really tiny but it's orange. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: I don't think atoms have a color, Quinn.

Quinn: Orange is made of star dust. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: I...guess...so...

Quinn: Star dust tastes like sprinkles and candy. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Yes, Quinn.

Quinn: Mom? Can I have some candy? With sprinkles?

Me, considering that candy in his mouth might give me two or three minutes of quiet: Yes, Quinn.

Quinn, while eating candy: This candy is made of sprinkles. And star dust. Right, Mom? Right?

Me: Sigh.

All day, every day.

*****

Jack is more succinct, but just as outrageous.

In the car on the way to school this morning:

"I invented autism."

There you have it. We will be accepting kudos, hate mail, and bug reports at your convenience.

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