Both of my kids are little chatterboxes, which came as a bit of a surprise since my husband and I are both fairly quiet people. Picture Lorelai Gilmore, and you have my son. Picture Lorelai Gilmore after drinking a dozen espresso shots, and you have my daughter. (And in case you can’t tell what my recent Netflix binge of choice was, it was Gilmore Girls.)
Like any kid, they often have to be reminded not to interrupt. Over and over and over. They’ll learn eventually, or so I’m led to believe. But for now, we have to keep working on what seems to be an involuntary action that causes them to cut in on every other sentence that exits our mouths.
Parent: “Hey, do you think that chi–”
Kid: “Come see the size of this poop!”
Parent: “Do you want to go to–”
Kid: “Oh my god, I think I’m developing superhero powers!”
Parent: “We need to pay–”
Kid: “I WANT GOLDFISH!”
You get the picture.
A few years ago, when Little Man was five, I tried telling him not to interrupt in a different way after an especially interruptive day.
I suppose that looking good is a possibility, but not quite what I was going for. It took a bit of prompting before it finally clicked that I was referring to listening and not just talking over me/people.