My son tells me there’s a woman made of garbage who lives in our walls. He tells me this at night, while we’re trying to go to sleep in my dim bedroom, his father out of town.
“Her name’s Trish,” my son says, “and she’s so
nice.” He yawns.
I’ve perfected the art of minimizing my reaction to the creepy things my kids say and do. One night, my older son sat on a stool next to me while I washed dishes.
“Remember before I was born,” he said, “when I used to just hang out in your apartment and watch you live your life?”
I didn’t drop the glass I was washing, didn’t slowly back away from him, snap up my car keys and drive away forever. I calmly dried the glass, ran through an incriminating catalog of my pre-mom behavior, and hoped he wouldn’t offer up any proof.
That son learned to talk early — a little too early, maybe...