We’ve been getting a lot of questions recently about how old Eli is. I say “we,” but what I mean is “Eli.” “How old are you?” someone will coo to Eli, who will look blank before going back to saying “wiggle, wiggle, JUMP!” and doing the Monster Pants Dance. And oh, the dancing that occurs.
Now he mostly knows that the answer to “How old are you?” is “Two.” I guess next year we’ll teach him to say “three.” It’s the toddler version of the Y2K bug.
I was off in Atlanta this weekend working on that eternal project for a nearby science fiction convention. As part of the weekend activities, I had to shave my goatee off. I’ve had that goatee for six years, so it’s quite the change. When I got home Sunday, Eli stared and stared at me. “Daddy?” he asked, with this half-grin on his face, before sidling away. Eventually he decided that I was still me and from then on wouldn’t let me be more than three feet from him at all times.
After dinner last night, Misty asked him, “Are you a dinosaur?” He roared on cue, his head shaking from side to side in preparation for tearing into a triceratops. “What kind of dinosaur are you?”
“I’m two. Two dinosaurs.”
“What kind of two dinosaurs are you?”
“I’m an Eli Tyrannosaurus Rex.” And he stomped off to terrorize the rest of the house.