She says, “This is my friend Krillin. Give him a kiss!” I am not a girl. I am an uncle. I do not kiss “hims.” I kiss him anyway.
She opens the refrigerator and grabs the box of Capri Sun. I take it from her and put it back. She takes it out again, and I slap her hand. I wonder why it worked. She doesn’t wonder, she just puts it back. I wonder if she’ll stop wondering. I certainly hope not.
“This is my friend Krillin. Look at his booty! You have a booty!”
Who taught her the word booty? Her words are still playthings. She finds them, tries them on in an oddly verbal form of dress-up, shouts them until we beg her to stop. I take my toys, dress them up with fancy syllables and place them on the mantle, to be seen but never fondled. I would like to play with my words.
I wonder if lion trainers ever stop and let the lion lead the class. I take my seat in front of her.
“And what are we learning today, Yana bee?”
She is a very busy two year old.
“Learning? I don’t want to learn. I want dance party!”
Today we dance.

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