Kid, in a 60 degree house, is intoning, over and over, “I’m hot. I’m hot.”
I just hollered “Stop saying that; I don’t care.” Roll out the red carpet, I know I’ve been nominated.
Come on. He’s wearing shortie jammies, he’s on top of the covers. He’s fine.
And he’s been up no fewer than three times (next time gets the door shut completely, so he won’t be up again) to tell me that his friends don’t all fit in the bed. The whole day was about how they, they being Clementine the rabbit, Oliver the dog, Pizza the zebra, Uncle Bear the bear, Madeline the monkey, and Biff the Billy Goat, don’t fit in the dining room chairs and in the small table’s benches, and in the small orifice where I crammed them all by about 5pm.
Now he’s intoning, “Where’s Daddy? Where’s Daddy?”
Man, that kid knows on which side his bread is buttered.