Insult

Logan loves playing with words. For about the last year or so, he's been getting a big kick out of replacing the first letter of various words with the letter G (why G has this honor, I have no idea). For example, he'll say, "How are you, Gommy?" and then start laughing hysterically. People's names are frequently converted – Uncle Guss, Aunt Geidi – or nouns that accompany his game of "Where Does the Diaper Go?" (no, he's not potty-trained yet. Not even close. He will be the only teenager in the world who still wears diapers).

"Where Does the Diaper Go?" is a game he invented that we play before he takes his bath. He takes off his diaper (which obviously goes in the trash) and asks me, "Does it go in the gash? Does it go in the gub? Does it go in the sink? Does it go in the laundry? Does it go in the gotty?" etc. etc, until he finally inquires, "Does it go in the trash?" – to which I respond with a resounding, "Yes!" whereupon he dumps the diaper and climbs into the tub.

He also has a knack for remembering things, most especially phrases out of his favorite books (of which there are many). Usually this is delightful, especially when he starts talking to himself saying things like, "Go, dog, go," or "Mr. Plimpton out of bed, cream in coffee, egg on bread." However the other day, he looked at me and rather gleefully said, "Hi, fatso!" – and I responded by dropping my jaw and getting red in the face and wondering just what it is he's learning at this new preschool, before I remembered his book My Sister Gracie, where a plump dog is teased by other dogs.

Clearly we have to start warning him about the nature of an insult.