Yesterday, I spent part of my afternoon arguing with my three-year-old over whether a rabbit could lay eggs and hatch chicks. She claimed that her bunny, Groner (who doesn’t actually exsist anywhere except inside Ella’s itsy-bitsy head) laid several eggs, and they hatched into chicks.
In a tone I hoped was supportive but also conveyed my concern that Ella might be out-of-touch with reality, I said, “You know, rabbits don’t actually lay eggs.”
Upon hearing this, my baby flew into a rage, called me an infidel, and threatened to have me killed. (OK, that is not exactly what she said, but that was what her tone implied.)
Because I am not afraid of death threats from a three-year-old, I yapped, “You are a sissy-punk kid who doesn’t know anything, and even if rabbits could lay eggs, Groner would not be able to ‘cause he is a frickin’ boy!” (Again, that is not exactly what I said, but that was what my tone implied.)
Then, Ella said, “Mommy, you hurt my feeling when you say Groner can’t lay eggs and have baby chicks.”
I felt bad, so I kissed her a million times, backtracked, and said, “Groner can totally lay eggs and have baby chicks by the dozen. Plus, there is a special bunny owned by the Cadbury Corporation who lays chocolate eggs every year at Easter.”