Poppet’s current favourite topic is marriage, specifically: hers. At least once a day, I hear, “Mommy, what’s my husband’s name?” She then segues into a spiel about “when I’m a mommy” and choosing a house and having a baby in her tummy.
She is three and a half. Almost.
I don’t think she believes me when I tell her I don’t know what her husband’s name is because I don’t know who she is going to marry. I told her she had plenty of time before she had to decide. She responded by telling me which of the boys in her class she had already deemed as unsuitable marriage material.
In a conversation with Nana last week, she announced that her husband would have the same name as Hubby. Nana, understandably confused – we’ve been through the whole “I’m going to marry Daddy one day” thing before – asked for clarification.
“No, Mommy’s married to Daddy. I’m going to marry another one.” I didn’t see it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there was eye-rolling involved.
I repeat: three and a half years old. Heaven help us when she hits the teenage years.
In the car the other day, she started talking about babies. She’s on a whole “I’m the firstborn, Pixie’s the nextborn” kick. She asked me what her children’s names were going to be. I launched into the familiar “I don’t know, you and your husband can decide, one day in the far, far future” speech, which she promptly interrupted with, “My firstborn’s going to be a boy. My nextborn’s going to be a girl. And their names will be Aladdin and Jasmine.”
“What if your husband doesn’t like those names?” I asked.
“Their names will be Jasmine and Aladdin.”
Okay, then. Do you suppose it’s too soon to start knitting baby blankets in pink and blue, embroidered with J and A?