Charlie never really seemed to catch on to the concept that he was three years old, which is increasingly frustrating in polite society. Adults have a compulsion (I know, I share it) to ask kids their name and how old they are. When you have a kid who doesn't really know what to do with these questions, it creates frequent awkward moments. With his fourth birthday party this last Monday, we've been working on the idea that he's four.
How old are you, Charlie?
Big.
No, Charlie, how OLD are you?
I big.
Are you four?
Don't like nicknames. I dust a Big Boy Name Tchawie.
I finally had a breakthrough yesterday when I asked, "What's your number?" and he answered, "Four." After getting that one right a few times, he made the connection between that and the more typical way of asking it.
He quite often insists that he is Big Boy Name Tchawie. If you call him by his full name, he says, "I not dat name. I dust a Big Boy Name Tchawie." If you call him Mister Charlie Pants or Boofer or any of his usual names, you get, "Don't like nicknames. I dust a Big Boy Name Tchawie."
Okay, I get it. You're four. You're practically a man. But, for a few days, we couldn't even call him Charlie without getting the nickname lecture.
Wednesday, as we headed to our new town for me to sign paperwork and for them to scope out some houses, Melody said it all. In the middle of the 200 mile drive, she sighed, then said, "It will be nice when we go back to calling him just Charlie again."
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