At the table, eating steak:
Me: Nonono, don't give me that much. Just half that amount.
NYAB: Why?
Me: I'm too tubby. Pants don't fit.
NYAB: Whatever.
Me: YP, eat your dinner. And you should try that stuff on the edge. Some people like how it tastes.
YP: What is it?
NYAB: It's called fat.
YP: OK. This is good. I'll eat fat to be fat.
Me: Eh?
YP: It is good, because I want to be fat.
Me: Why?
YP: Because I want to be just like you!
After which, NYAB offered the YP some sage advice about dealing with women who lament they are fat, while I collapsed on the floor in laughter.
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A few days later, in the car, after an altercation:
YP: I don't like being 7. It is hard.
Me: What is hard about being 7?
YP: I don't know what it means to be 7.
Me: What did it mean to be 6?
YP: Well, I was happy, I was excited ... I liked you...
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Last night, before going to sleep:
YP: You might have heard I didn't finish my schoolwork.
NYAB: Yeah, we'll talk about that tomorrow. I only get to see you for a couple minutes now before you go to bed, and I missed you today. I got used to seeing more of you when I was home.
YP: Aw, it'll be OK, Dad.
And then, when I came in a few minutes later:
YP: You might have heard I didn't finish my schoolwork.
Me: Yes. Daddy said we'd talk about that tomorrow. Pretty nice of him, huh?
YP: He is. Mom? Would you like to stay and visit with me for a little while?
Me:I'd be delighted! (Move to sit on the bed next to him)
YP: Thanks, mom! I'd be delighted too! But don't sit on that side. I'll move over.
Me:Why not? (Flip back blankets, find a hidden iPod.) Ohhh, trickery. Were you afraid I'd be mad if I caught you listening to this?
YP: Yeah. Are you?
Me: No.
YP: You're not? Yay! And, well, you found it and won't smash it, so you can sit over there now if you still want to.
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