The English language is notoriously challenging because we use the same words for different things (homonyms) or for slightly related things (polysemy) or we spell them differently but they sound the same (homophones) or they’re spelled the same but sound different (homographs). And then there are some words and phrases for which no amount of phonic exploration would reveal their true meaning.

Kids seem to figure it out, but not without some pretty funny—occasionally Freudian—errors along the way.   

Today, I’ve got three instances to share with you.

Our daughter’s never-ending quest to find the boundaries of acceptable behavior has moved into the realm of hitting. She knows hitting is not good. And she’s never hit the babies. And I don’t think she’s intentionally hit anyone at school (we would have heard about that). She has given me several firm thwacks to the face and neck that were delivered without malice.

The other day, with premeditation, she hit me—about as hard as a 3.9-year-old can hit—with her “wand” (the wooden handle of some kitchen utensil that lost its top). Right on the lower back. While I was holding a baby. 

I turned and very sternly said—

Wait–before I tell you what I said, I have to tell you how my dad taught me and my sister not to hit. As far as methods go, it seems so okay for the 90s but would send modern parents into a tizzy. 

***

I was probably my daughter’s age when I intentionally hit my dad in the face for the first (and last) time. He said,

“Oh! You want to play The Hitting Game!”

“Yeah! What’s that?”

“It’s a very fun game with hitting. Do you want to play?”

“Okay!!!”

“First, let me tell you the rules. You get to hit me, then I get to hit you. If you want to keep playing, you can hit me again. Then I get to hit you again. But this is very important: you can only stop on your turn. Got it?”

So we played The Hitting Game. I smacked him on the arm. 

“My turn,” he said.

What followed was a blistering slap to the top of my bare thigh. The skin was immediately red. Tears welled in my eyes.

“Do you want to keep playing? This is your chance to stop if you don’t want to keep playing.”

I did not want to keep playing. But I think some sense of defiance or maybe honor compelled me to say yes.

So I hit him on the other arm.

SLAP! He went to the exact same spot. Four finger marks were visibly outlined on my little leg. I think I was crying at this point.

“This is fun! Want to keep going?”

This time I really did not want to keep going. We stopped the game and he said, “Next time you want to hit, just let me know and we can play The Hitting Game.”

[Note: this was the only time my dad ever hit me. That I remember.] 

We never played the hitting game again. 

***

God, the 90s ruled! I just don’t think you can do that anymore! So here’s what I said to my daughter after she hit me with the wand:

“If you do that again, your wand is going away for good.”

Two minutes later, another blow lands. I grab the wand, saying, “I told you this was going to happen,” and I put it up in the cupboard. 

After an hour or so she asks, “When can I have my wand back?”

“Never.”

“WHAT!?” She starts sobbing. 

“Honey, I said, for good.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.”

Okay, that’s a fair point actually. Come to think of it, “for good” is a very strange way to say forever. I updated the terms of the punishment to Thursday. 

A few months ago, I had the honor of officiating my very close friends’ wedding down in Mexico. I flew there myself, leaving my wife and kids at home. It was sad not having them there to wake me up in the middle of the night.

Weddings in Mexico aren’t really weddings. Not from a legal standpoint, at least. They’re big parties. And this one was very fun. 

The other day, I got this text from the groom.

They got the paperwork and they’re coming over this weekend to “officially” get married. I was explaining this plan to my daughter over dinner the other day. 

“Sandro and Katrina are going to come over on Saturday so that I can officially marry them.”

In an instant, her look turned solemn. Which I thought was odd. She went quiet for a few minutes, then, in a stricken tone, asked,

“Are you still going to be married to Mommy?”

Nicknames are a big thing in our house right now.

My 8-month-old son’s name is Russell. We’ve got some good ones for him: Russell Mania, Russell Sprout. 

My current nickname is a bit less charming. And to be honest, I should try to shut it down because you don’t want your kid calling you this in public. Unfortunately, (1) trying to deactivate a nickname just pours fuel on the fire, and (2) I literally can’t help but laugh every time I hear it. 

So this is what my daughter has taken to calling me. 

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…

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Old Moldy Nuts.

Which is mostly innocuous if your only known definition of “nut” is a hard-shelled dry fruit or seed!! 

Thanks for reading! Hope you laughed. See you next time.

-Will

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