Yesterday, when Shannon picked Cian up from preschool, he complained loudly and at length about his ears hurting. As is his wont when not feeling well, he proceeded to scream bloody inchoate murder, while she tried to secure an appointment with his paediatrician.
When finally she dragged (I believe this is literally what happened) him to the doctor’s examination room, she had to pin his bad wriggly self down so that the nurse could take his temperature with one of those infrared in-ear thermometer things (not the right scientific designation, I know). Whereupon the cherub held forth with his opinions.
“Ow! That hurt! You’re a peepee-foot!”
A peepee-foot, for the uninitiated, is what you become when you defy your mother by holding her gaze furiously while pissing in your pants, causing your socks to get soaked. Ah, the ways of childhood resistance.
The doctor, when her turn came, subjected him to similar depredations, earning the milder soubriquet of “you’re a poopie!”
Given that the little man isn’t even three yet, his mastery of American political discourse is impressive, to say the least.