Letter Eight

Dear Luke,

What follows are snippets of recent conversation with you.

You, playing with a piece of spaghetti you've transferred from your bowl to the tray on your high chair:Look, Daddy! I'm playing with a snake!
Your dad: Okay, put it back in your bowl and eat it with your fork.
You: But... could I eat this one with my fingers?
Your dad: Okay. But after that one, you have to eat with your fork. You can't eat any more of it with your fingers. Okay?
You: Well... I can try not to.

***

You, pointing to the zipper on my jeans, in front of your dad's parents as I picked you up after work on Friday: Is that your pee-pee?

***

My young cousins, Aaron and Angelica: Luke, who do you like best? Her or me?/Luke, who do you like best, him or me?
You, very smoothly: I like Mimi [my mother] best. She's pretty.

***

You, running back into Mimi's house from the back yard: Mimi! I'm scared!
Mimi: What are you scared of?
You: I'm scared of the white man!
[I had to explain to Mimi that this is how you refer to the Jack-in-the-Box mascot, whose commercials you do not like.]

***

You, following a spectacular drum solo performed on an inverted hot chocolate tin with two large crayons: [Spoken as a growl] Aaawwwwwiiiiiight!!

***

You, interrupting a conversation between your dad and me: You know, when I was a kid...

Your dad and me: [Trying not to die of laughter]


Kiddo, you are hysterically funny even when you're not trying to be. We are so proud of you.

Love,
Mama