Peanut, your favorite central character from this blog since 2008, is growing into quite the middle-aged man.

He’s almost six, and everything exasperates him.

Not really, you say. Surely climbing trees and drawing and controlling a surprising amount of his time is fun for him, no?

Um, maybe. I guess. Sure. But when he’s with me, he’s exasperated.

Yesterday, he was playing with his food, and I gave him the unreasonably calm lecture I’ve been giving for four years:

Me: Honey, food is for eating. Please don’t play with your food. Eat your food. Play with toys. No toys at the table, so no playing at the table. Just eat.
P: Oy.
[blink, blink, blink]
M: Did you just ‘oy’ me?
P: Yup.
[blink. blink. blink.]

The next day, he was reading on the couch and Butter climbed up with him, handing his older brother a book to read. Peanut looked at the cover, looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Oy, Butter.”

I asked if his displeasure was based in the book selection, the interruption, or something else.

“Just oy,” he answered, and opened the book.

When the toddler throws a fit, Peanut “Oy”s. When I ask him to help clean up, Peanut “Oy”s. And yesterday, when told this weekend was busy with birthday parties and activities, he heaved a sigh and gave me his best “Oy.”

I don’t stop him, and I don’t indulge the laugh that bubbles up every time he says it. I just can’t imagine where he gets this.