The teachers tell me that at school my son hardly ever speaks. I swear they are talking to the wrong mom.
Either that, or he just saves it all up for me, because at home he never stops talking. He launches into a running monologue from the moment I pick him up after school until the second his head hits the pillow. Something as simple as getting a fork out of the drawer launches him into yet another tangental story.
I hear parents mourn the good old days of family dinners when everyone talked to each other, instead of wolfing down their food and bolting from the table. They should come to our house. Dinner takes twice as long to eat than it did to cook, and a “short” 45-minute meal only happens when I tell him to shush and keep eating. Seven times.
It takes an hour to read a 10-minute story. Every sentence begs for embellishment. Every picture needs in-depth analysis. His running commentary on the characters and plot is much more detailed than what’s actually written in the pages. Did the author realize he had left so much out?
It’s a good day when I can get a word in edgewise.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love the fact that he enjoys telling stories, and that at this age he still enjoys telling them to me. I know that one day — all too soon — he will think mom is totally boring and want to run off with his friends. But sometimes my poor old mommy ears just need a break.
Anyone have an aspirin?