Yesterday, I went to visit Fertile Myrtle and the babies. I came bearing a gift for the Fiece, to assure her that despite the recent appearance of her baby sister, she is still my favorite (seeing as she moves around and says ridiculous things and is just generally more entertaining).
The gift I brought was this Melissa & Doug Fruit Cutting set, because a) I love that company and b) I assumed it would be educational and help her with fine motor skills and vocabulary extension (…blah blah blah). The fruit also makes a really satisfying ripping sound when “cut” because it is held together with velcro. All positives.
In addition, I wanted to get her something I thought might be a challenge, because the last gift I got for her was a puzzle marked 3+ years, thinking she might grow into it. Apparently, she mastered it in like five minutes.
We spent a couple minutes learning how to use the cute little knife to slice the fruit (“You need to use the sharp side, Fiece, because the other side is too big”), and soon she was a fake fruit cutting professional. I was extremely proud of myself when she wiled away the first twenty minutes of my visit cutting up the strawberry, lemon and orange and then sticking them back together, over and over. She took some huge bites of wooden banana. She told Fertile Myrtle about how the knife was “vewy sharp” and learned what a kiwi is. The present was a success!
Then, suddenly and completely unprompted, she looked me right in my eyes, brandishing the little wooden knife, and said, “I will cut you, Auntie Sarah.” And she did. She cut my legs with the knife, smiling from ear to ear, and then she rubbed half a wooden lemon into the wound.
Because I am a sick person and a bad influence, I started laughing hysterically, until I was weeping tears of mirth. Wiping my eyes, I repeated, “I will cut you,” in the same scary monotone way she’d threatened me.
I hadn’t been talking to the Fiece, or to anyone really – I had just wanted to hear it again, because it was so insanely hilarious to me. However, as soon as the words left my mouth, Fiece covered her face with her hands in horror (still clutching the knife) and said,
“No, Auntie Sarah! No! Don’t cut me again!”
Don’t cut you again, Fiece? When did I ever cut you ever? Didn’t you just slice me? (Lest you all think I’m some toddler-cutting sociopath: the Fiece has some trouble with the difference between words “you” and “me.” For example, when being chased by a tickle monster, she will dive into her mother’s arms and say, “Mommy, save you!” instead of “Mommy, save me!” I’ve deduced that she meant to say, “No, Auntie Sarah! Don’t cut you again!” Unless, of course, she was trying to make me look like a toddler-cutting sociopath, in which case, well-played, Fiece. Well-played.)
I don’t have a funny ending to this story, nor does it have a moral, because we basically just let the Fiece run around pretending to stab everyone in the house for thirty minutes while we cooed over Baby Fiece laying in my lap.
What this story does carry, however, is a warning that perhaps teaching maniacal genius two-year-olds with new baby siblings how to wield knives is not a great idea.