The Lad built a rocket out of these snap-together blocks we have. It actually looked like a rocket and he flew it around and around the room, yelling, "ROCKETSHIP!"
"Lite-ning Queen on," The Lad said. "Lite-ning GO! ROCKETSHIP! Go fast!"
And just like that, I had two pint-sized story tellers. In case you can't tell, Lightning McQueen was riding in that rocket, going very fast.
The Boy was running around, playing with the dog. Brucie dodged, and The Boy couldn't dart as fast. He ran eye first into the corner of the cabinet. He's fine. But he does have a thin cut just under his eye on his cheek. I put a Band-Aid on it -- Lightning McQueen, coincidentally -- and every time he looked in the mirror, he giggled.
We're calling him Scarface.
While we were getting every jammed up for bed, the boys started running around half naked.
"Belly fight!" The Lad said.
"I don't have my shirt off," The Boy said. "I can't belly fight."
Neither the husband nor I had any idea what they were talking about. The Lad yanked on The Boy's shirt, which soon came off, and then, they chased each other around, bumping bellies. It was like tiny Sumo wrestling.
Belly fighting devolved into back fighting and then butt fighting. When we forced them to stop and get into jammies, The Boy, still giggling, informed us the kid fights were over, but now the adult butt fighting was starting. Do I have to tell you the husband and I complied?
Not only is The Lad telling his own stories, he's following others more closely.
"Rock. Read," he demanded before bed, so we settled into the rocking chair. We read Lightning McQueen and then he asked for "Fur-uh-nun." It took me a minute to figure out he meant "The Story of Ferdinand," which two nights ago he was calling simply "Bull."
He pointed out the flowers and the mother -- "Cow. Momma cow good." -- and the tree. And when we got to the part where Ferdinand sits on the bumblebee, he shouted.
These are the reasons I had kids.