My child is a piece of work. Allow me to illustrate:
Yesterday when I picked him up at the sitter's, she gave me a strange look. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, "I didn't expect to see you. Braeden said his daddy was picking him up because you were hurt and had to go to the hospital." Needless to say, I am perfectly okay! No clue where he got that idea!
A few days ago I asked him what he wanted for supper. "A-fee-esa potatoes (fiesta potatoes from Taco Bell) and a drink and a straw for my cup." Guess he was worried he'd have to suck his drink through the lid...
I decided to grill for supper one night, and he wanted to play outside with me. I agreed. Then he asked me if he could play in the dirt. I said no; I didn't want him getting his hands dirty before suppertime. His response? "What about my foot?"
Four-year-olds. Gotta love 'em!
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