My youngest daughter has a nickname for me. She calls me her "pussycat." It is very sweet. She will be snuggled in my lap, put her hand up to my face and say "mommy ... you are my pussycat." Awww.
She is also at an age where word-combinations are endlessly amusing. Like hampster + toast. And foot + apples. And fuzzy + head. Peals of laughter over the brilliance that is the English language.
All very silly and funny.
...Untill she starts yelling "Pussypants!" and squealing with delight in a restaurant. Which she has done.
In an unrelated story. My eldest daughter was watching the Westminster Dog Show with me a few years ago. She must have been about the age of 3. She saw the tiny dogs prancing about and said "Look at the pussy-dogs!" Uncoached. You can't make this stuff up!
I lost it. I was the one doubled over, peals of laughter. It reminded me too much of the Dead Milkmen. Cousin Earl. Metaphysical Graffiti. One, big, hyphenated word. Never did correct her. Small dogs are now known as pussy dogs in my home.
So if I am a pussycat and pussy-dogs exist ... how do I tell her to stop yelling pussypants? I don't. I just tell her to stop yelling. We are in a restaurant for God's sake.
1 comment:
I remember when Patrick, and this was when we didn't have a cat and I don't know where I would have heard these words together said the Middle Eastern food, "Tastes like kitty-poop! Kitty-poop. Kitty-poop. Kitty-poop. Hee, hee, hee.
Yeah.
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