When I Was Three All I Talked About Was My Little Pony

There's a lot of talk of death around here. And dying. And being dead. And also shooter guns.

This talk used to bother me a lot. Talmage was my little itty-bitty baby boy, the little baby who used to run his fingers through my hair when I fed him, the little baby who used to climb on my lap to tell me about his owies, the little baby who curled up into my side when we read books, the little baby who wanted channies and who referred to himself exclusively in the third person. I wanted no part of "Talm like guns, yep!"

I especially had a hard time when my little itty-bitty baby boy sat in the backseat and improvised a gun with his finger. "KILL, KILL, KILL!" he'd say as he massacred the cars who passed us on the highway. This lead to our banning the word kill in our house and replacing it with cream. It's slightly less offensive when your little baby boy says "CREAM, CREAM, CREAM!" as he slaughters unsuspecting passing vehicles with his index finger.

Then Asher was born.

My sister-in-law Barbara took Talmage for a week when Asher was born. Yes, she should be nominated for Aunt Of The Year. When Talmage returned to our house, he had roughly quadrupled in size, his torso alone generating its own weather system. My little itty-bitty baby boy was HUGE.

Case in point: in the year leading up to Asher's birth we worked quite a while on potty-training. My first step in potty training was naked time, where I stripped Talmage in hopes that he wouldn't pee on the furniture. It was wildly successful, and Talmage spent large chunks of the day without clothing on. Being naked became a habit at our house. I know what you're thinking. For the sake of strangers showing up unannounced, I needed to dress my child. But he was my little itty-bitty baby boy! Little itty-bitty baby bums are adorable!

The day after Asher joined our family, all I could think was "That kid needs some pants. Somebody should tell his mother."

And somehow, talk of death was less offensive coming from my great big pantsless giant child. He wasn't a baby anymore; he was a boy. And boys talk about death. And dying. And being dead.

In the end, all my efforts to avoid the word kill merely resulted in Talmage's invention of the transitive verb "to die." This type of verb takes a direct object; in a sentence, it sounds like "I'm going to die you." I recounted to Tyler that Talmage just told me he was going to be die me. "No, Mom," Talmage corrected. "I die you. You going to be died."

Excuse me. Little-boy-violent-speak grammar was never my strong point.