Uno, dos, tres, cah-tro, seis, siete, oh-no, nueve, dies!
That’s right folks, I can count in Spanish. My Aunt Amy taught me that, or at least that’s what I tell Mommy. Can you please verify my statements, Aunt Amy?
Oh, and you want to hear my English counting?
Two, two, tree, sex, eighteen, five, nine, ten, twelve, twenty! Mommy taught me that. Perhaps we should have a conversation about who’s the better teacher?
I’m quite the playground sensation.
I also know some letters:
A (for Amy)
B (for ball)
P (for poop)
S (for snake)
You know, all the important letters. Last night, Daddy even tried to sneak one past me and spell “ice cream”, and I yelled “CREAM”! Not that I really knew all the letters, I just know that when Daddy starts spelling stuff, it usually involves an ice cream stop.
Speaking of Daddy, Mommy made the mistake of sending him out for more bubbles. Daddy bought this instead.
Of course, Daddy doesn’t understand the delicate mindset of a toddler. Oh sure, the “bub shene” is fun, but it will not curtail my endless requests for “bwow bub”. A machine cannot replace human interaction, Dad.
Grandpa understands this. Grandpa gets me.
So sorry to bore you with our little park adventure, Dad.
But, um, someone needs to tell Grandpa “we don’t throw rocks.” He’s trying to get me in trouble.
Ummm…P.S. I suffered through another haircut. It was very traumatic this time. Especially since I flailed and cried so much it didn’t get done. Mommy calls it the crooked-Frankenstein look. I’m in desperate need of a stylist if anyone has a recommendation. All I can say? Don’t mention haircut, hair, cut, or scissors in my presence. It will result in teardrops.