I’m sitting on the couch, and Youngest Son (not quite two years old) is sitting next to me. He has recently developed an acute case of Mickey-Mouse-a-philia, and is sitting there saying: “Youngest Son Mickey Mouse Mickey Mouse Youngest Son Youngest Son Mickey Mouse Mickey Mouse Youngest Son…” (This goes on for about five minutes before I get a word in edgewise.)

Me: “Are you and Mickey Mouse friends?”

Youngest Son: (After a long pause) “Yeeeaaah.” (Smiles.)

Me: “Are you best friends?”

Youngest Son: “Yeeeeaah!” (Smiles again.)

Me: “What do you and Mickey Mouse do together?”

Youngest Son: (Long pause.  Leans over and gives me a kiss.)

Me: “Awwww, that’s really sweet.  What else do you guys do?”

Youngest Son: (Without missing a beat, gives me a gigantic roundhouse smack across the face, leans in real close, gives me the stinkeye, and just says one word.) “ANTICIPATE!”  (Gets down; wanders across the room.)

Me: (Under my breath) “I fucking hate Disney.”

Disclaimers: This is a moderately fictionalized version of what actually happened, and: (1) the “roundhouse” was pretty clearly unintentional (and barely left a mark); (2) “Anticipate!” might have been “am I not GREAT!”, or “a mushy plate!” or any number of things; (3) “Mickey Mouse is” pronounced “mee-mee-mah” by Youngest Son, which is how he pronounces “Minnie Mouse” as well, so he might have been saying “Minnie Mouse” rather than “Mickey Mouse”; and (4)  I really do fucking hate Disney.


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