Bear dysmorphic disorder.
Rebekah and I, along with one of her teddy bears, dressed in a tutu, did some errands today.
She insisted that the bear needed to come into the post office with us, and on the way out, she was talking for it.
"Whatever you say, fluff-ball."
"Mama, don't call her that!"
"OK...whatever you say, short stuff."
"Mama!"
"Shrimp?"
"Mama!"
"Small fry?"
"Mama. Don't make fun of her. You're being mean saying those names, and she doesn't like it."
[She summons up as much dignity as a seven-year-old can muster.]
"Her name...is Chubby-Wubby."
To her credit, she didn't get mad when I laughed so hard I was crying.
She insisted that the bear needed to come into the post office with us, and on the way out, she was talking for it.
"Whatever you say, fluff-ball."
"Mama, don't call her that!"
"OK...whatever you say, short stuff."
"Mama!"
"Shrimp?"
"Mama!"
"Small fry?"
"Mama. Don't make fun of her. You're being mean saying those names, and she doesn't like it."
[She summons up as much dignity as a seven-year-old can muster.]
"Her name...is Chubby-Wubby."
To her credit, she didn't get mad when I laughed so hard I was crying.