My friend Kim and her four kids went out “Auntie” Amy yesterday. The auntie who obviously has no children of her own – who couldn’t figure out the dadgum carseat belt, covered eyes each time a hat went on, ran into displays with the cart, checked the 8-Ball to see if things are going to look up (yes, most definitely). Still, they were good sports – even Kim, when the conversation of her 3-year-old turned into something like this:
Logan: Mom, when I have a purse …
Kim: Boys don’t have purses.
Me: Unless you move to Europe, then you might have a man purse.
Logan: So, when I have my man purse …
Kim and me (in unison): Oh my word – he did not just say man purse! *hysterical laughter (which may or may not have been emitting solely from my corner of the van)*
Unfortunately, I cannot tell you what the poor fellow was trying to say. Lord knows he tried to make his point; this, of course, included starting over – and saying “man purse” – multiple times. Eventually his older brothers could take it no longer and yelled, “It’s a backpack! It’s called a backpack!”
Right, yes, it’s true … a backback … you’ll call it a backpack.
As long as he remembers that last bit, we’ll be fine. Pretty sure.