K and I were in the car the other day. I was driving. She was playing with one of those
K calls out from the backseat, "Baby choking! Baby choking!"
"I don't think the baby is choking, K. She's trying to suck on a pacifier. A binky. That's not choking."
At this point I'm still keeping my eyes on the road, because I am an attentive driver. (Ha!)
"No, Mom. LOOK! Baby choking! Look, mom!"
I look. She's sitting there, tiny toddler hands THROTTLING THE NECK OF HER BABY DOLL.
At this point I'm mostly amused. I've wanted to choke the life out of that particular doll before, too. I try not to laugh and instead explain why we don't, uh, choke babies.
Everything is quiet for a few minutes. Then I hear it again. "Look, mom. Baby choking!"
I think, okay, let's try a different tactic. "Why would you want to choke your baby? Why would you want to do that to Baby . . . What is that baby's name?" (K is an eclectic doll-namer, and has characters ranging from the mundane "Baby Sue" to the more colorful "Baby Dar-Dar" to one that's just called Baby Baby.)
K: "Baby Karinya [my last name]."
YOU GUYS. My daughter was not only enthusiastically choking a baby, but a baby who happens to share my FULL NAME.
I'm afraid of my toddler. If there's another long period of silence here on the blog, you might want to send someone over to do a welfare check.