I love my daughter very much, but she is an odd duck, and quite goofy, prone to saying weird and cute and wonderful things. Some of you will remember her "Ockopus." Here are some recent Abbyisms for your multiple invisible assumed audience perusal;
"Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite." Ah, the wonderful rote rhyme that evokes not only infestations of biting, bed-ruining insects, but also a time when bed frames were made of rope. Somehow, this has transformed for Abby into a bizarre call-and-response.
Abby: Good night,
You: Sleep tight,
Abby: Don't wake the bedbugs up.
No amount of correction or explanation has made a dent on this one. Abby also thinks her mom's name is "Honey," though this is likely my fault. Last weekend, I hugged Abby close and smelled her hair. She let me know this was okay; "You can smell me because I'm a girl. Girls are more like flowers. Max is not a flower." At the same time, she's insisting that when she turns three she'll be a boy. After she's a boy though, she explains, she'll turn back into a girl again, when she "gets better." So being a boy is like a sickness, then. Or maybe she just knows something I don't. She's a girl, so that's likely - they always seem to know stuff I don't.
Her stuffed black sheep is named Blah Blah, and her striped dog is called Spaghetti Tomato.
Finally, last night spontaneously at a burger joint while having dinner, she falls on my arm, hugging it, and says, "My Daddy. I love you, Daddy. My Daddy, and Max's daddy, and you're always a hero." Which is nice, especially on weeks when you don't much feel like one. I have other things I could be writing about today, but I picked this. I think Abby's my hero this week, too.