My niece and nephew came over to my parents' house today. Jill and Emily began to play with dolls. They both had a doll but decided that wasn't enough. How do you get another baby? Well, you're pregnant. Soon they were walking around talking about their pregnancies. Then they laid down on a big pillow and gave birth to twins.
During this time of labor, their younger brothers were announced to be the husbands. And apparently, husbands have pretty specific duties during childbirth.
Jill: "Husband, go kill a chicken."
Danny: "No kill chicken."
Jill: "Go kill a chicken, so I can eat turkey."
Danny: "No kill chicken. I nice."
Jill: "You just get a knife and cut it down the middle and take its head off and put it in the oven."
Danny ignores these instructions.
Jill: "I'm having twins. Go kill a chicken!!"
Danny lies down on the big pillow next to Jill and Emily.
Danny: "Look how big my tummy is!"
I guess he decided he would rather be pregnant than kill a chicken.
Since Thanksgiving, Jill has realized that the chicken and turkey we eat are the same as the farm animals we see. I don't think Daniel has made that connection yet.
Oh, and as I was walking up the stairs to come write down this absurd exchange, I could hear the girls still.
Emily: "The baby is coming! I'm pushing!"
Jill: "I can see the bum!"
What a painful delivery that would be—bum first.
And here are two conversations from yesterday.
Me: "You know I'm not having a baby anytime soon, right?"
Jill: "Well, yeah, but . . . "
Me: "Alice is still a baby, don't you think? We can't have another baby when Alice is still such a baby."
Jill: "Well . . . you do have two boobs. You can feed two babies."
A few minutes later, she came up with this.
Jill: "You should have eighteen babies, Mommy!"
Me, laughing: "You should tell your daddy that."
Jill: "Okay. I hope I don't forget the number!"