My friend Kris and I are talking about leaving the kids with sitters and how we have gotten to the point that we don't care what they eat or how much TV they watch, as long as they are alive when we come home.
Dalton hears us talking and says, "Yeah, when Grandma babysat me, we ate so much candy."
And I say, "I know you did." I know this because he had a stomach ache for two days after we came home from New York. Plus, I found the evidence of it all over the house. Yesterday I was cleaning the downstairs and found an empty Nutella container (the Costco size) empty with a spoon sticking out of it, hidden on one of the toy shelves. I asked Dalton whose it was. He said that it had been his snack when Grandma was over. Great, again- at least he was alive.
So, Kris and I are laughing about this, when Dalton says, "That's why you told me I was retarded."
We both stopped and looked at him. "Dalton, I didn't call you that."
"Yeah, you did. Remember you said I was so retarded?" I am starting to sweat, trying to recall this moment of temporary insanity when I would have told my first born that he was retarded. I was drawing a blank. That seriously did not sound like something I would say. But Dalton was adamant. So, I quickly thanked her for the play date and we left.
In the car, I said, "Dalton, why did you say that I called you retarded?"
"Because you did. Remember when I couldn't go poo and you said it was because of all the junk I ate with Grandma...that I was retarded."
"You mean constipated?"
"Oh yeah. I always get those two words mixed up."