Butter thinks he can walk. And he grabs my hand every opportunity he can, and drags me into the kitchen to see the vacuum.
“Gakaah,” he says, signing vacuum.
“Oh, yes,” I answer. “Here is the vacuum.”
He grabs my hand again and drag me into the living room, where we have a throw rug.
“Gakaah,” he insists, signing vacuum again.
“Yes. This is where we use the vacuum. The vacuum goes here. Vacuum is all done and put away.”
He drags me back to the kitchen and shows me the vacuum. Pulls me to the rug, shows me where to use it. Back and forth until he gives up. Clearly, I’m too stupid to understand that we need to vacuum again. Every hour or so.
Poor guy. When Peanut was tiny I totally vacuumed several times a day for him because he liked it. Pretending to be daft is a coping mechanism I’ve built over the past few years. And I fear for poor Butter (and Peanut and Spouse) that it’ll only get worse.
Never thought my highest aspiration would be acting thick. Oh well. It’s nice to be good at something.