Think About It

Oliver climbed up to the table at dinner tonight, turned to me and said, "So, how's it going?"

His ability to mimic has become quite impressive.  For his birthday, Michael's parents got Oliver a "Chattimal," which is a hamster that records what you say and repeats it right back to you in its own squeaky voice.  Where on earth did they get that idea?

In light of Oliver's new talent, Michael and I have become very good spellers.  "Are we letting him watch D-O-R-A tonight?"  "Tomorrow we should take him to a M-O-V-I-E."  "He cannot have any more C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E-M-I-L-K today, he's had like 3 cups."  I told you, we're getting good.  Family members coming to visit have a slight delay, as if they're coming to you via satellite, with a blank, searching stare as their brains decode the letters we're rattling off.  They're not practicing as intensely as we are.

When our friends were leaving last weekend, we told Oliver, "say goodbye and thank-you to your friends."

"Um," he said, his head cocked to the side, his eyes squinting, "I'll think about it."

In this toddler world where it seems as if Oliver is incessantly asking to do things ("Can I drink that?  Is this mine?  Can I have that?  Can I watch that?  Can you come play that?  Mommy help please? Pickles please?  Crackers please? TV please?  Read books please?  Play outside please?") sometimes my brain needs a minute to decide whether to say yes or no.  After all, if it's a no, I also need to formulate a reason, which I don't always have.  So in these instances I'll say, "I'll think about it."  Now in the hands of my toddler, my phrase has officially backfired.

One day, desperate to get cleaned up already by noon, I told Oliver that Mommy was going to take a quick shower.  "Um, I'll think about it," Oliver said, as if I had asked his permission.

"No Oliver, Mommy is taking a shower."

"I'll think about it."

"Oliver-"

"Think about it."

I shook my head and walked into the shower, hoping for a few minutes to myself.  I had worked my hair up into a thick shampoo lather right when Oliver ran into the bathroom.

"I gotta go potttttyyyyyy!!!!" He announced in urgency, and began to cry.  Fearing the worst after having given him Miralax that morning, I jumped out of the shower and plunked him on the toilet.  He smiled, and pointed out that I was covered with water and soap.  Indeed my hair was still piled up with shampoo suds, and I sat there soaking the floor, all in the name of potty training consistency.  He sat there being silly and I stood there shivering. 

"Oliver, are you done?" I asked hopefully.

He scrunched up his face in mock-seriousness.

"I'll think about it."