When we are with family members and someone says something that is just too... too... much, we always roll our eyes and say, "OK, John."
And I tell you this because The Girl has become my father. She's a talker. Sometimes too much of a talker. When she tells the hostess at Red Robin that she went pee in the girls' restroom and not the boys' restroom, I cringe a little. Kind of like when my dad will go into great detail about some post-operative bowel issue or tell tales of bone infections or talk to the bag boy at Vons in excruciating detail about the delicious cioppiono he and my Mom had in France in '84. But then my heart swells a little too. Because it really is great to know that we are made up of all those odd bits and pieces of DNA, handed down through the generations, quietly keeping the family traits alive. And sometimes not so quietly. So The Girl has a new nickname - John.
And if you happen to walk by while we are in Target, she will let you know the status of her blister, or that she recently received Ice Age and Scrat is her favorite, or tell you that sometimes she is "mean to my mommy," or that the stain on her shirt is from yogurt (like Lola had on picture day!), or that she is a big girl and made peep on the potty at school today. If you walk by while we are playing in the front yard, she may also add that she is currently going "commando" under her dress and hopes that the neighbor's dog doesn't get her "biscuits." She is so John. And so am I.