It's a Paul Post

So this video is Paul playing by himself at the table while I worked on the computer and while we waited for the "wice" (rice) to finish cooking. It's nothing special, just a boy playing like a boy. And it's cell phone footage, which makes for a clear Oscar nomination.

In other Paul news, he spouted a new word today. This has been the Summer of the Flies. Or rather, the Summer of the Flies on Meth. They don't just hang out at the window like normal flies; nope, they zoom from the window to the trash to the sink to the trash to the window to the sink to the trash and so on. THEN they end up in our bathroom, where, if you're really quiet and calm, you can hear them repeatedly power crash into the mirror. Again and again - bzzz, smack, bzzz, smack. Only a fly on meth would pull that crap.

And speaking of crap, the point of that little tidbit was to share with you Paul's new word. Every time I sent a fly to his demise today, Paul exclaimed "Oh cwap!" Smack goes the fly swatter, "oh, cwap!" goes my toddler. Oh yeah. Again with parenting at its finest.

But I cannot get over the leaps and bounds this kid has made in communication over the past few months. Things like "cwap" are nearly crystal clear, but milk is still "nup". Words aside, what strikes me is that he's listening and is spouting sentences too.

"Where my arm?" Issues with pulling a shirt on.
"I wan my woolbereen." Wolverine is quite popular still.
"My peet hot. Cawwy you." My feet are hot (on the concrete). Carry me.
"I wub you. See you in mowmee." I love you and see you in the morning.

And then there are these conversations:

"Mommy, I wan mosshters."

"Musketeers? You want to watch Three Musketeers?"

"No. Maaaashters." He looks at me with high expectations.

"Monsters? Like Monsters, Inc.?" I ask hopefully.

"No. MAAAASHTERS. MAAAAAASHTERS." His voice rises because obviously I'm not hearing him.

I'm scrambling in my head for anything resembling that. "Mashters? What is that, baby? You want to eat something?"

"No, mahshters."

I'm still struggling here. And he knows it.

And that's when he takes my face in both his hands and puts his own face an inch and a half away from mine and (I swear he's got a condescending tone at this point) says, "mahshters." And he's so dern cute and so dern serious that I can help but smother him with kisses while giggling at him and I say the only thing I can think of to get me out of this mess,

"You want a cookie?"

And all thoughts of mashters are gone. Whatever the heck they were to begin with.