This time of year, I am often holed up on the weekends working, scoring essays for the GRE. One of the perks of the work is that occasionally boys saunter in for kisses.
Andy pops in. He is bearing a number of small pieces of paper he has colored for me. "I'll put them here, mom," he assure me as he gingerly tucks them into frames of pictures in the room. "There! Now don't lose them!" He pops out.
Joey wanders in. He looks sad, and he sprawls on the bed. "Are you OK?" I prompt. "Daddy says I have to stay in my room one hundred years." "Wow, thats a long time. What happened?" "Andy sat on my arm. I am Buzz Lightyear." That may not tell you much, but for me, it conjures up a scene where Joey is annoying Andy by pretending to be Buzz Lightyear falling down the stairwell, complete with slow-mo and shocked face. At the end of the sequence, Joey pulls off a glove to pretend his arm has come off (or he hides an arm in his shirt, pulling it out of his sleeve- but the "sat on my arm" indicates glove). Andy then sits on the glove, probably purposely, but you never know. Joey proceeds to take action to recover said glove. Result: the crying I hear downstairs and a Joey in my bedroom.
Andy comes wailing in, tears down his face, and into my arms as I swiftly move the computer aside. All attempts at conversation are repulsed; I hug him, kiss him, and he darts away. I haven't a clue.
Joey bounces in. "Hi Mommy!" he calls loudly, probably letting his Dad know that he has not gone to his room as he was told to do. "Hey, little Buddy! Whatcha up to?" "Mud is brown!" "Yes it is." "Ducks are blue!" "Are they?" "I'm a green caterpillar!" "I see!" He hugs me and leaves without another word.
Andy comes in, with a big bag and a soda- lunch! Yum! "Hi Mommy!" he chimes as he gives me the bag. "Do I get a kiss, too?" He giggles and lets me smooch him. "I miss you, Mommy!" "I miss you, too, sweetie." "I'm not a sweetie! I'm a Andy!" I guess he doesn't have the concept of "synonym" down yet.
Joey appears, grinning. He has small pieces of blue painter's tape all over his face. He comes over, and puts one on me. "I'm sick," he says, drawing an exaggeratedly sad face. "Oh dear," I respond helpfully. "Do you have the polka-dot pox?" He doesn't respond to this, but moves the tape from my arm to my face. "Your face is broken. I fixed it." "Thank you," I respond, hoping it is the correct response. You never know. "I'm so cute!" he announces, snatches the tape from my face, and bounces out.