Hunter-isms...

Just the other day I was going around the house, gathering up clothes for the wash (the clothes hamper apparently has ninja-like invisibility; that's the only way I can account for the boys never seeming to find it). I noticed that Hunter had already taken off his socks, so I asked about them.

"Hunter, where did you put your socks when you took them off?"

Hunter looked at me for a moment, then looked thoughtfully into the distance, then looked back to me and said, "Dad, I regret to inform you that I don't remember where I put my socks."

At least he regretted it.

This reminded me of once when Hunter was just a little bit over three years old.

We were at my mother's house, and Hunter was doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing (I can't remember what it was), and his mother told him several times to stop. Being three, and master of his own destiny, Hunter just kept doing whatever it was.

"Hunter," I said. "What did your mother just tell you to do?"

Hunter looked at me. Looked at his mother. Looked at my mother.

Then he looked away, closed his eyes, crossed his arms and said, "I'm not taking any questions right now."

These two statements, made years apart, tell me that Hunter is a natural-born wordsmith, whose gift will one day bring joy to many people, which will bring tears of joy to my eyes.

Or, he's a natural-born politician, which would bring tears of a completely different kind.

Either way, I think the world is in for something.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad

Open Wide...

I picked up the boys from their mother this morning to take them to school.

Nothing special there; I do it every day.

This morning, after we got into the line of cars waiting for the doors to open and shut the car off (greenhouse gasses bad, continuing to live good), Hunter dropped down the sunvisor, opened the mirror, and began to stare into his mouth.

"Hunter," I asked, as any responsible and confused parent would. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing, Dad. I just like to stare at my uvula."

I'm continually impressed by the randomness of my son's fascinations.

Plus, since I still think of the uvula as "the hangy-down thing in the back of your throat", he's already proven that he's smarter than me.

At least he wasn't staring up his own nose.

Or mine.
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Thanks for reading my ranting,

Brad