Twice this week my daughter has asked for something and when I informed her that I didn’t know where that particular thing was, she told me it was fine.
The first was the baby elephant, whose mommy elephant was splashing in the bathtub.
“Hey Mom, the baby elephant isn’t in here.”
“Huh, I brought in all the safari animals, I’m not sure why it’s missing. I’ll take a look in the box.” A few minutes later, I had confirmed it was not in the box.
“I don’t see it,” I called back into the bathroom, bracing myself for the irritated command to locate it, at any cost.
But no such command was issued. “Oh, okay,” she replied mildly, as I stood in her room, dumbfounded by this completely unexpected response.
Two days later she was on the toilet and needed a book (yes, my four-year-old daughter requires reading material, just like her dad).
“How about Uuk y Gluk?” she suggested, when I asked her which one she wanted. (We are deep in the Dav Pilkey canon right now–I tell myself it’s okay because we’re reading them in Spanish.)
“Shit, I muttered under my breath. “Where the **** is Uuk y Gluk?”
“I don’t know,” my husband shrugged, relieved that it wasn’t his problem. “Maybe in her room on the floor?”
Except, of course, it wasn’t. “I don’t know where that one is my love,” I called back to her.
“Okay, then bring me another book,” her voice rang out, dripping with an exasperated air of “duuuuuh” that is becoming quite common.
I raised my eyebrows at my husband, who was similarly astounded. Did our four-year-old just tell me that it was okay I couldn’t find a book? Was I not being commanded to locate said book, and threatened with a major meltdown should I fail?
I grabbed some other Capitán Underpants books and handed them to her. “Oh! Capitán Calzoncillos! I love this guy!”
And that was that.
“Is this what the future looks like?” I asked my husband, incredulous, as I settled into the couch.
“Possibly,” he mused. “Of course you still have to go in there and wipe her butt.”