She comes by her nickname, Talky Talkerson, quite honestly. From sunrise to bedtime, she talks. Talks and talks and talks. Conversations, questions or monologues, on and on she goes. It’s a combination of amusing, entertaining, exhausting, frustrating and endearing.
98% of the time lately, the days begin with her little voice yelling one of 2 things in her groggy, semi-wakeful state, from the comfort of her bed.
“Can I come dooo-oo-own?”
“I’m getting hungry for my bektest (breakfast)”
With our permission, she trundles downstairs, dragging her ratty blankie, and she’s off.
Some samples from Wednesday:
“Even strangers have feelings, you know”.
“Call me Alice. I can never go back to being Anja.”
“Mum, who am I again (me: “Alice”) “Oh yeah, Alice. Call me Alice.”
“I need to tell you a story about, um, me.”
“Can I tell you something very important? (…) I love (…) my blue curtains.”
“What are you thinking about me?”
Her parting words to me as I left on my holiday (that’s right… my holiday. More on that, later).
Me: “If you are good for Dad while I am away, I will bring you a new bathing suit.”
Anja (eyes wide as dinner plates): “What?! Really? For me? A new one? Ok! I want it to have boobies and underpants and black and white stripes and all the colours.”
I’m on the hunt for said item.