What 34-month-old Esmé has to say about...
...fog (or having the last word):
We were driving through a winding river valley on our way to Coos Bay, and fog drifted lazily around the trees and hills.
Esmé: There's smoke!
Pappa: No, that's fog.
Esmé: No, it's smoke!
Mommy: No, it looks kind of like smoke, but it's really fog.
Esmé: It's SMOKE!
Pappa: [A detailed explanation of how fog forms.]
Esmé: [Rubs her eyes dramatically] The SMOKE is burning my EYES!
...the age/height correlation (or diplomacy):
Pappa: Who's the oldest? [in our family]
Esmé: Mommy [who is more than 4 years younger than Pappa]
Mommy: [indignantly] Why?
Esmé: Because she's the tallest! [a good 14 inches shorter than Pappa...]
Mommy: [Exasperated since they weren't being used] Should we give away your potties?
Esmé: Yes - give them to the doctor.
Mommy: What will he do with them?
Esmé: He will make them grow big, and then HE can use them.
And what the doctor has to say to Esmé: Come back when you're four. Maybe you'll like me then.
...her birth story:
Mommy: Where did you come from?
Esmé: From your tummy! You picked me out and I dried myself off.
Mommy: OK, let me get the story straight. How did you get out of my tummy? [I should've known better.]
Esmé: [thinks...] Through your nose! First I put my finger into your nose, and then my hand, and then my arm, and then my face, and then my knees, and then my legs, and then my feet through your nose.
Mommy: And then you dried yourself off?
Esmé: Yeah, and then I dried myself off.