Letter Eleven

Dear Luke,

Here are a few of the things you say and do lately.

a) You wrote a song on your conga drum, aided by a piece of a different instrument that you are using as a drumstick. It goes thusly, and it's spoken/sung with a LOT of snarly sort of attitude. It's... well. It's almost a punk song.

You could run really fast/Or, if you wanna read a book/Then read a book NOW!

At the end, you throw the "drumstick" on the drum with a great theatrical flair.

b) You say ruefully that you wish I could be in various bands, like The New Pornographers and The Arcade Fire, because "you would have a lot of fun, Mama."

c) You ask to call your Mimi so that you can speak with her in Spanish. You then instruct me to speak with her in Spanish, ostensibly so that you can listen to my end of the conversation. Actually you've become a bit hung up lately on whether or not people speak Spanish. You ask everyone, and if they say no, you teach them a word or two. Then you say to them, very encouragingly, ¡Sí! ¡Muy bien!

I remembered the other day that you used to say waddy for fish. Waddy! We never did figure out why.

Boy, you are painfully cute, so smart, so kind. I adore you.

Your Mama