My son is really getting good at talking to us. He tells me little stories about what’s gone on during his days, and I soak it up. It’s so sweet to hear his little voice talking to me. I remember looking at his moist little newborn lips and wondering someday what they might say, how they might say it, and what his voice would sound like.
Those days have come rapidly.
Last week, he was playing with a little beenie baby kitten.
“Fold be arms,” he said to the kitty. They were both lying on their tummies in the living room, “Say… ‘Heabenly Fodder…’ Kitty! Fold BE ARMS!” He would fix his kitty’s paws over and over to make sure they were being folded and then he would continue teaching the kitten to pray.
**NOTE: when Trent says “Be” he really means “my” or “your”. I don’t know why he does that, but I love it.**
After he decided his kitty had said a satisfactory prayer, he picked it up.
“Come on, kitty. Let’s shoot be gun.” He picked up one of his three plastic orange guns and put the kitten next to the trigger. He spent the next few minutes teaching his kitty to shoot and I sat back and watched. It was the sweetest thing. Pretty soon, his sister appeared. Without a word of warning, she snatched his kitty right out of his hands.
“Trent, I hafta cook you kitty,” she said, running into her room where her little play kitchen is. Trenton looked after her, sighed heavily, and gave in.
“Awwight,” he said, following her into their room.
I just sat back, watched it all, and laughed my little buns off.
You really couldn’t argue with her reasoning… “I HAFTA cook your kitty.” How can you refuse that? Poor kitty.
Here’s Trenton with his latest favorite toy. He got mixed up somewhere along the way and started calling it “Shampoo” instead of just “Pooh.” Except he pronounces it “Cham-poo” and I refuse to correct him.
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