The other night, as we were putting Penguin to bed, Papa Bird was telling me some horror story about the radiation fallout from Japan and how this will impact us in terrifying ways for YEARS TO COME!!1111!!111!

I can barely handle stories of a person stubbing their toe, let alone stories of apocalyptic doom, which is why he likes to torture me with such tales. So I stated, with a hint of forceful irritation, that I was choosing to bury my head in the sand on this issue and wanted to hear about it no further, thank you very much.

Penguin looked at me and then appeared to be deep in thought. After a few moments, he stated, “No, Mama, don’t bury your head in the sand. Then you cannot talk or breathe.”

Truer words were never spoken. I love the literal-ness of a three-year old. One time, when I was still pregnant with Penguin, I was taking the commuter train and feeling incredibly nauseated. I started to think that if the damn train didn’t stop soon, I was going to “toss my cookies.” And then I started to think about having to explain that statement to a child and let them know that I was not literally going to throw cookies about (what an unforgivable waste!) but that I was politely informing someone that I was going to barf.  And look, three and a half years later, my little daydream has come to pass. I mean, it’s not cookie-related, but still, it happened. This stands, oddly, as the ONLY thing I correctly anticipated would happen once I became a parent. I was pretty much wrong, naive or misinformed about everything else. Go figure.