Demands From A Tiny B.B. King

Some days, it's the little things in life that lift your spirit. Like when you reach into your fridge and discover that the frosting you bought for that birthday party back in November has not yet begun to exceed its expiration date, and, by god, it is delicious! Or like the moment when you learn that for every human being in the world there is approximately one chicken. (Tip of the hat to snapple facts for that one.) Or when you are called a princess by your nephews simply because you are wearing a dress and happened to remember to shower that day. Little kids are so easy to please, and they understand this concept of appreciating the little things of life fully. Two of the main little kids in my life these days are my nephews, Quinn and Cole. They are 4 and 2, respectively, and I find them hilarious.

When I first moved to Boston, I had just moved out of the unnatural realm of college. The majority of the people I had interacted with were eerily all my age, and many of them liked to go streaking. But in the real world there are all sorts of people old, young, and somewhere in between, who wander the streets and maybe are waiting for you to interact with them. And streaking is highly frowned upon. So the addition of Quinn and Cole to my life was a welcome change. When I go over to their house I am subjected to their interesting perspectives on life, their constant stream of conversation that yields some fabulous quotes, and maybe the occasional bubble liquid in the eye mishap, which is a small price to pay for such amusement.

Because they are not my children, I thoroughly enjoy how blunt and unintentionally insulting little kids can be. "I like your moustache, mom!" "Auntie Rachel has a penis!" "Your legs are sharp, Auntie Emma." Not exactly statements that one wants voiced in polite company, even if the one voicing them has yet to pass a roller coaster height restriction. But personally, I love when Quinn and Cole say stuff like this. It is not only endlessly amusing, they also come up with some brilliant insults that I can store away for future altercations. Next Tuesday when the rude lady on the subway platform yells "Out of my way!" I can just be like "Yeah, well, I like your moustache!" Burn. Thanks for that one, Quinn and Cole.

For some reason, it is not all that offensive when little kids say such things. They really do just want to compliment you on your moustache, whether you actually have one or pray at night that hair never grows above your upper lip. But there they are, little kids with their high pitched little voices looking up at you, their eyes shining with curiosity and trust and earnestness, and suddenly it's no longer offensive. It's delightful. I guess Bill Cosby was right, kids really do just say the darndest things.

Cole and Quinn have a breathtaking exposure to contemporary adult rock throughout the decades. This is due in large part to their Aunt Keely's tendency to create mix c.d.'s for any and every occasion. (Birthdays! Valentine's Day! Summer! Anniversaries! Break-ups? Tuesday!) Cole and Quinn have been subjected to all the greats, from the Beatles to Boys II Men. A long-standing favorite for them is the legendary blues guitarist, B.B. King.

The younger nephew, Cole, is an avid role-player. For Cole, every day presents a new opportunity to play a different character. Some days he feels a little like Roley, the green steamroller from Bob the Builder. Others days he leans towards Thomas from Thomas the Train, or a train conductor named Conductor Dave, or even (a few times) a man named Sean, a friendly neighborhood bug exterminator. 

A little while back Quinn, Cole, and I were playing outside. Cole was whacking a stick into a bush. Then he stopped and held up his hands to me.

"B.B. King wants some milk, please."

I was a bit taken aback. As of one second prior Cole had reprimanded me for not calling him Bob. But there he was: tiny, endearing, and obviously more than a little thirsty. So off I went into the house to pour his royal bluesy-ness a full sippy-cup of milk.

When I came back outside I was ready to play along. "Here you go, B.B. One milk on the house, just the way you like it." And I reached out to hand him his cup.

But Cole didn't grab for it. He didn't even look up at me. Instead, he said aloud, "Hold on. B.B. King has a phone call." And then he proceeded to reach into his pocket to pick up a phone. An invisible phone. Cole held up the "phone" to his ear, and stood there, face set with intense concentration. He made me wait two minutes until he was done before he looked over to thank me. And then he grabbed the sippy cup, picked up his stick, and started to whack the bush again.

Yes, it may have hurt my pride just the slightest bit. But who was I to deny Cole his right to creative role play and a taste or two of milk? In the larger scheme of things, it is totally hilarious when my nephews say and do these things to other people, so I can learn to stomach these jabs when they happen to my ego. And frankly, if I could choose who I had to be insulted by, I'd much rather it be from a mini-sized B.B. King demanding some milk. It's way cuter.