Third Person Narrative--Momrepus asks "WHY?"

There’s someone standing behind you in line at the grocery store. He seems normal enough and starts talking to you. Fine. You’re pleasant and polite and then…he mentions “Joe”. Joe loves this. Joe does this for a living. Joe can’t stand it when people do that. You’re wondering if you know this Joe, or if this guy thinks you know Joe. This guy…what the hell was his name again?

Suddenly, you’re hit with it—that sick feeling in your stomach reserved for dark alleys and darker still parking lots. Your heart beats a little harder in your chest as your voice squeaks, “What’s your name again?”

He looks confused and upset. “Joe doesn’t like when people don’t listen to him,” he warns.

Alright...dramatic but I’ve always hated this. And, personally, the creep factor squashes anything Fear Factor can dream up. So why, WHY, do parents do this? Why do we talk about ourselves in the third person?

“Mommy will be right there, honey.” “Please don’t hit Mommy.” “Where is Mommy’s nose? Yes! That’s Mommy’s nose—you’re so smart!”

When did this happen?

A good friend of mine came to visit and, as she was leaving, she turned to me and said, “You know, my son did that, too.”

“Did what?”

“Referred to himself in the third person. It’s that damn Elmo. Once I stopped letting him watch Sesame Street, he stopped doing it.” Okay, it may not be that simple for all of us but, hey, if we never refer to ourselves as, well, ourselves, how will they learn? And while it may be easier for children to learn in the third person when they’re itty bitty newbies, two and three years old is old enough to learn proper grammar.

It took a week. “Oh, YOU want some more peaches? You say, ‘I would like some more peaches.’” (And, while you’re at it, get that “please” in there). It was a week of loud, drawn-out first and second person narrative but we survived, and our son is talking goodly. We’re so proud.

Ew. How UnMommy-like of You

In response to Crystal’s writing prompt, I will say this:

Two friends, crackers, cheese spread, wine. And baby was not napping.

Let’s see…he sat in his highchair too long (because we were sitting at the table) and ate too little (because I couldn’t make up my mind—fruit or veggies). He sat in a wet diaper, which he NEVER does when we’re home. He got into things I wouldn’t dream of letting him near because I was talking and only watched him out of the corner of my eye. I had only one hand on him during those times when I probably should have been holding him in a mommy death-grip. I forgot his nuk when I brought him up for his nap. And his toy box didn’t get opened once—he played with Pat’s shoes and Janet’s tattoo…oh, and the cord that was lying around from the video camera charger. I think I may have gotten a picture of him doing one of those things. We also put a bottle of wine on his highchair and thought it was too funny not to take a picture of. Please, you must agree…

And, you know, I had a good time. So did the little guy. I say…not sure he needs a toy box. Not sure at all. Thanks J & P!

P.S. My (fantastical) friends brought this wine over for me and we laughed (a little too heartily) but, as a novelty wine, we thought, "It's gonna suck." Just an FYI...it's really not bad.

Finding Relaxtion in the Strangest Places...

I sat in a parking lot outside a strip mall yesterday. It was early evening, still sunny with a warm breeze blowing. I just returned something (one of my least favorite things to do) and I got into my car to drive home. When I opened the door, I didn’t want to close it, didn’t want to put the key in the ignition—didn’t want to go home. I inhaled the summer air (and car exhausts). I looked around at the asphalt with its mustard yellow painted lines and cars scattered about and chain stores with obnoxious clearance signs in the windows and wondered why there wasn’t a spinning rack with “Wish You Were Here” postcards or a display of “My Mom Went to a Parking Lot and All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt”. It was so damn relaxing, I thought myself at that moment the most pathetic creature to ever walk the earth. I didn’t want to go home but wanted instead to stay there in that shopping plaza and breathe in whatever fresh air I could while averting my eyes from the shops and cars.

It was that day, desperately attempting to delay my inevitable arrival at home, that I decided to stop by the natural food store I’d been eyeing for months. Upon reaching the door, I realized it was locked despite the open sign and as I was walking away noticed, for the first time, the United States Armed Forces recruiting center one door down. I eyed the damn place like a teen drooling over a tattoo parlor, knowing I couldn’t really go in but hesitating outside the door just the same. My hub mocked me when I got home, saying I was too old and they wouldn’t take me but never saying he hadn’t, on occasion, thought of it himself.