Holy Crap

ZP: I wish I had a Greek in my bottom so that it could cut the string for my poopoo and then I wouldn’t poop anymore.

Oh, what?  You want backstory? Fine.

A while back, ZP was having a temper tantrum about something (eating food, taking a bath, AP giving him the stink eye, who knows) and TP tried to distract him by telling him to come take a walk with him.  The decibels and red-facedness and hysterics increased until I finally had to pull him into his room, sit him down, and raise the one topic I was sure would grab his attention: death.

Me: Calm down.
Me: Daddy just wants to spend a little time with you.
Me: You know how nobody knows when they will die?
ZP: *sniff* yeah?
Me: Yeah, well, life on Earth is short.  It’s important to do good things and be kind to people and appreciate what you have because you never know when it’s your time to go. And when Daddy wants to spend time with you, you should appreciate that because you never know how many days any of us have together.
ZP: When do we die?
Me: Nobody knows.  It’s just fate or kismet or something.
ZP: What is “fate”?
Me: Well, the Greeks believed that there were three women who decided how long someone would live . . . etc. etc. thread of life, yada yada, when it gets cut, you get the idea.

Somehow, he extrapolated “Greek” and “string” and “when it is cut, that’s when it ends” and tried to apply it to his own reality and desires.  Not sure what he has against pooping (in fact, I’m fairly certain it’s one of his favorite topics), but it’s rather fascinating to try to figure out how his mind works. Much more so than how his bowels work.


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