We're eating dinner last night. Elliot is being, shall we say, disagreeable with the amount of some food we've given him. Quinton looks at him rather calmly. Q (matter-of-fact): You get what you get, and you don't make a fit. Me (shocked and amused): Where did you learn that, Quinton? Q: At school. Me (certain his Waldorf teacher did not say this): Who said that? Q: Tristan.
I think I like this Tristan. Later in the evening . . .
Dan: Q-Q, it's time to put these jammies on. Q: I'm sorry, Dad, but I'm just not ready yet. I need to finish this puzzle. Dan: Okay. Q: Okay. Thanks for waiting, Dad.
Later we read a bedtime story. On his way to the bathroom Quinton bumps his head, and then again after doing his business.
Q: Mommy, I hit my head AGAIN. Me: I know baby, sorry that happened. Q (sighing): It's just a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad night.
Seriously. 4 going on 40.