Sometimes I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.
Today has been one of those days! I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. It’s no wonder writing professionals encourage newbies like me to get out in the real world and take notes while life is happening.
Sometimes we call my three-year-old son, BoBo.
(Well that’s just disturbing!)
It’s just a nickname. Anyway, creepy clowns aside, it’s a term of endearment. We’ve spent the last few months trying to potty train BoBo. Whenever he had an accident I would say, “Oh BoBo,” in a tired voice. Never mean or cruel. He’s just a baby.
This afternoon, BoBo was standing next to me in the kitchen when out of nowhere, he looked down at his pants and said, “Oh BoBo,” in the same tired voice I would use. I looked down at his pants and, sure enough, he wet himself. I swallowed back the laughter because I didn’t want him to think I was making fun of his accident. Really, it was his cute-as-hell reaction to the accident that made me laugh.
Then this afternoon, I stepped into the restroom for a few minutes of privacy. (What was I thinking?) This did not go over well with the two-year-old who’d been following me around. All. Freakin. Day. The second the bathroom door closed, she started screaming. I heard my husband trying to reason with her. That never goes over well. Someday he’s going to have to learn you can’t reason with a two-year-old.
After I finished my business, I followed the sounds of her screams into the hallway where I found her lying on her back, kicking the air with her feet. She turned toward me right as my head came into view and stopped screaming. Then she said, “All Done!” and rolled off the floor, heading straight for me. And that was the end of her fit.
I swear, Ellen, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. I don’t need to go out into the real world for dialogue. I can just stay home and watch my kids from the comfort of my couch.