I posted last month about how Ryan adamantly does not want to grow up.
I should have titled that post “Things Ryan Insists Upon On a Daily Basis, Part 1″.
Part 2 would be this:
His. Name. Is. RYAN. You ignorant fool!
It began innocently enough. We’d call out to him with something cute like, “Come on, ya little tater tot, let’s go!”
And he’d respond with unexpected fury: ”I. Am. Not. A. Tater. Tot! My. Name. Is. RYAN!”
Or we’d give him a compliment:
“Wow, you look so tan!”
“I’m not tan! My name is Ryan!”
Or we’d demonstrate respect:
“Oh, yes sir!”
“I’m not a sir! My name is Ryan!”
Naturally, as soon as we discovered the heightened level of annoyance he felt at being called a random name, we could no longer control it. Cutesy nicknames began flying about with abandon.
On any give day, he might be a Hummus Head, Stinker Face or Buster Brown. We might make reference to the fact that he appears to resemble a hot dog, a rhino or a snicker doodle.
Each name is met with the same sort of infuriated resistance. “I. Am. NOT. A. Potato Chip! My Name is Ryan!”
I have good news, though. Occasionally, at the end of his rant, he adds that he is a “big boy.” For example: “I am not a little beach bum! My name is Ryan The Big Boy!”
Perhaps we’re making progress on Part 1?
I'm Meg. I grew up in Ohio, came of age in Arizona and am now raising a family in Pennsylvania. I'm a freelance writer, an essayist and a stay-at-home mom to a spirited four-year-old boy. We're on a journey to adopt our second child through the foster care system. I'm told I am too organized and too sarcastic for my own good but I don't see how either is possible.
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