Fiona hasn’t wanted me to put away the plastic Easter eggs. She plays with them and any time I stick them into the garage, she finds a way to retrieve them.
Sometimes she hides them and finds them, but most of the time she pretends that they’re birds eggs and baby birds are hatching out of them. Then the imaginary baby birds must be fed and petted until they grow up and fly away. All good.
I like the fact that she has a rudimentary understanding of how birds are born. Great science.
Yesterday, however, she handed me an egg, which she said was hatching. I watched in awe, with her, as it broke open. (In case you don’t have kids: Be warned. You must pretend to be amazed by many things. Over and over. It gets repetitive and boring. You will still do it. It’s in the contract.)
As it hatched, I asked her, “What is it?”
She said, “It a ‘po’mus.”
“A promise?” I asked her. “What kind of promise?”
“No.” She corrected. “No po’mis. A pot’mus.”
“A hippopotamus?” I asked, confused by both the articulation and the concept.
“Yes!” She shouted. “It a hatching tiny, baby Hip’pot’mus!”
“Oh, wow!” I said appreciatively. “It is a very, very tiny hippopotamus. Normally, they are much bigger.”
“Yes.” She said. “It had very tiny Mommy and Daddy.”
I can appreciate that concept. Babies are like their parents. Good call.
We finished watching the “hip’pot’mus” hatch, then had to care for the tiny hippopotamus until it grew up and flew away. I can’t make this stuff up.
I’m wondering if I should explain the concept of mammals to her soon. She currently believes that everything hatches from eggs and I’m fairly sure that that’s a pretty critical piece of information about the world. Of course, if I did that I would miss out on hatching hippopotamus’ which are, in fact, pretty amazing.