Ironmom.
“I really like Ironman. And Superman. And Spiderman.” She paused. “But not the Hulk, because he smashes things. Why he smashes things?”
“He gets angry and that anger makes him turn into the giant green guy, and he smashes.”
My daughter, thanks to her father’s affinity for all-things superhero, has developed a taste for the slate of superheros and supervillains. She rocks her Superman t-shirt at school, and her Batman pajamas at home with both encouraging regularity and vigor. But that’s the nature of her being three years old – she is learning so much every day, taking in her surroundings and chewing on them until they make sense for her.
Part of what she’s hyper-fixated on, in addition to superheroes, is the location of my Dexcom and insulin pump. At least once a day, she asks me to show her my devices.
“Where is your Dexcom, mawm?” she asks me, patting my leg knowingly.
“Right here, on my right leg.”
“And your pump is right here, right?” she asks, pressing her finger against the screen.
“Exactly.”
The other day, Birdy was troubled because she couldn’t find my insulin pump in the dress I was wearing. “Mom, where is your pump?”
“It’s in the front of my dress, here,” I said, pointing to where the pump was clipped to my bra (disco boob style).
She contemplated this for a minute, and I could see the laundry list of information she’s been collecting in the last few weeks rolling around in the dryer in her head.
“You’re like Ironman, mawm.”
“Ironmom?”
She laughed that wild, unfettered laugh of a toddler who just learned what “a joke” is.
“Yeah! Ironmom! You made a joke.”
