mlog

Jessica taught Miles the joke that chocolate milk comes from chocolate cows.

This morning he told me that we get chocolate from killing cows.

Miles has a classmate named Elizabet, which sounds like “a little bit” to him. He thinks it’s a scream to ask for Elizabet of this or that. So, here’s Elizabet of stuff heard from Miles this week:

You’re pink chocolate and I’m brown chocolate.

I have a baby in my tummy. Her name is Zara.

With all of us in bed one morning:
I’m lying here between two clowns.

After I brought him a sandwich and a cup of milk:
I didn’t order this!

There’s this great book that we often read Miles at bedtime called Shades of Black. It’s a book of photographs of black children of many skin tones, hair textures and eye colors and it celebrates their beauty and heritage. Every few pages it says something like, “I am Black. I am unique.  I am proud to be ME!” He loves the book which compares skin color to delicious foods, hair to different things in nature and eyes to gemstones. When we get to the boy who describes himself as rich, creamy milk chocolate, Miles often shouts “I (am) like creamy chocolate!”

Sometimes we talk about our skin colors in our family. Like, Miles has brown skin and Mommy or Daddy has beige skin. And so and so in his class has brown skin and her Mommy is black and her Daddy is white, etc. Kids his age are so literal, it is probably very confusing for him to understand why we say he (and other people) is/are two different colors. As a result, Miles often gets the two colors black and brown confused. Here is a very cute example:

Miles and I went to the store yesterday and he told me he wanted to buy some “goldfishies. ” “But I want the BLACK goldfishies. NOT the ORANGE ones.” I was puzzled by this. I know they make them in lovely artificial shades of yellow, orange, green and red, but black ones? He went and found the pretzel ones on the shelf and handed them to me. “These black ones.” (They are brown).

Another part of that book says, “I am Black. I am descended from African Kings and Queens…” Last weekend we were all in Ron’s office doing an improv percussion concert. Miles was pounding on his drum and chanting: “My name is Miles! I come from Africa! I am a King! My name is Miles!”

A little bit of stuff heard from Mile this week:

No, it’s MY-ami!
Is that my black penis?
What I’m gonna get?

Saturday, I was having my daily snack of chips and salsa at the kitchen counter. Miles was in-between meals and snacks, playing in the front room.

I must have crunched or crinkled too loud, because I immediately heard little feet in the hallway and then some scurrying and scraping.

Miles appeared in the doorway, his plastic IKEA bed-climbing/teethbrushing stool in tow.

He dragged the stool up to the counter, hopped up and got hands-on with the chips.

“Buddy wahdy, Daddy! Buddy wahdy!”