A Sponge

On Wednesday, when Nigel and I were on the way to the gym, I noticed that he was singing the words to "Dynamite" by Taio Cruz. Considering Nigel can tell you the names of every NPR host/hostess, recognize the theme music to every NPR program, recite websites he's heard on NPR and has been singing along to Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours" since before he was 2, this shouldn't have surprised me. But it did. This isn't a song that comes on our radio often, and I certainly don't sing along myself each time. And when I'm driving, the volume is barely audible. It's like he's a sponge.

Obviously his sponge-like memory allows him to absorb new words, facts and skills quickly — and I'd be lying if I said he hasn't picked up a few naughty phrases — but it also means he picks up on my "parent propaganda" with ease. For example, I'm no fan of soda. Before my grandmother died she had a lump in between her eyebrows, which her doctor attributed to her enourmous intake of artifically sweetened sodas. Not sure if that was on the mark, so to speak, but it's stuck in my mind. On a rare occasion I'll have a clear soda, such as Sprite, but it's no secret that Tim's a big fan of carbonation... especially real Mexican Coke. Not long after a rant against soda to Nigel, he said "No drinking soda, daddy" to Tim at the dinner table. And the same day that I caught him singing pop music in the car, we had a talk about speaking when spoken to (he hadn't acknowledged his "teacher" at the gym when she said hello). I told him that it's a nice thing to do, especially if you want people to be nice to you. His response? "Oh, you mean like karma?" My heart swelled, y'all!