It’s highly possible that I am raising the wittiest eight-year-old alive. Judge for yourself:
Eric often prays in a British accent. I think he does it to give God a laugh. Last night, he prayed the following:
“Dear God,
Thank you for my family.
And my planet. It’s a nice one.
And my sense of humor.
Give me the Force.
Amen.”
Missing: one set of eyebrows. If found, please return to Eric…
Looking at a photo I snapped of him, he wailed: “Where are me eyebrows?!? My eyebrows are *missing*!!”
Eric appreciates his father: “Me and dad both have skullduggery.”
Eric blows a raspberry as in protest during a cut-throat Monopoly game.
“Eric! Say it, don’t spray it,” I say, laughing.
“Oh please. You changed my diapers.”
The charmer pays me an odd compliment:
“Mom, you have nice arm hairs.”
After crashing one of his Transformers:
“Well, that prototype’s done for.”
Playing house with his cousin Jazzy:
Jasmine: “Eric!! Our baby eggs are hatching!”
Eric: “Okay. I’m gonna go play golf.”
Jasmine, wailing: ” But if you leave, they’ll all die!”
Eric: “Pfft.” And off he walks with his plastic putter.
“Eric, stop talking!”
“I’m always talking.”
“I know!”
“I talk in my sleep. Anyway…as I was saying…”
Eric has caught on to the fact that part of the reason he has to go to bed early on Sunday nights is because we have an appointment with Walter White and Jesse Pinkman. Distinguishing himself from the fictional riff-raff, he recently announced,
“I’m not Breaking Bad. I’m Breaking Wind.”
The little hooligan pushes his chair back violently and leaves the table.
“Where are you going?” Jason asks.
“To do this: {fart noise}.”
Upon returning: “Dad, I did it just where you told me too: Allyson’s room.”