Sylvie steals every private moment she can to tell me things. And what, you might ask, does Sylvie tell me?
Well, she tells me she will use paper diapers. ("Those are single use, landfill bound plastic diapers, sweetie." "I know, Mama, but paper diapers sounds nicer.")
She tells me she will buy Barbie when her children are 5, but she'll knit them wool teddy bears when they are one. ("No, I will not buy your children Barbie, but they will be yours." "I know, Mama, but what if I TELL you to buy them Barbies?")
She tells me she will live with me, so I can hold her babies sometimes. She tells me we will have to have a stroller that we can push when we're opening and closing gates in electric fence. ("But, sweetie, if we just put the babies in a carrier, the fence won't be a problem." "I know, Mama, but I like strollers.")
She tells me she doesn't want to be married, so she'll get married, have babies, then divorce. Unless of course, she can figure out how to have babies with one of her friends like Ella or Bea. ("Sweetie, these are big plans; you have lots of time to figure that out." "I know, Mama, but I just don't know any boys I want to marry.")
She tells me I will have to let her use my room, because she will be a mama. She tells me about flip flops and bottles and cribs and plastic, glowing, electronic toys. She tells me that she just has to live with me because she loves me. She tells me endless things about the twins she'll have or maybe triplets. ("You never know what will happen, sweetie." "I know, Mama, but what if I DID have triplets!")
Then, she tells me she doesn't even quite like me. Daddy is really her favorite.