The drive from my house to my parents house takes an hour and a half. I'm going to play in a golfing tournament and maybe also to get The Boy out one evening to play a few holes because he really likes to play. He's been playing for over three years now. I remind you that he's not quite 5 years old.
We're listening to a music CD I've made of various artists. And even though partially sleep-deprived, staying awake is no problem when there's a little chatterbox going non-stop for the full ninety minutes with questions, questions, questions! Among the gems:
Boy: Who's this group?
Me: The Beatles.
Boy: What's their names?
Me: John, Paul, George and Ringo. They play rock and roll. All different kinds of music actually.
Boy: Do the Beatles play a Tango?
(Tango? How the heck does he know about a Tango?)
Me: Don't spill your lemonade now. We don't want a mess in the backseat.
Boy: I spilled some. Only a little, Just a drop.
Me: We-eelll.... A drop is okay.
Boy: Is half a drop okay?
Me (considering): Spilling half a drop might be pretty tricky....
Boy: (unintelligble ... but one word catches my ear ... did he say,"funky?")
Me: What? What did you say?
Boy: I said look at that cloud, Daddy.
Me: What kind of cloud?
Boy: Look at that funky cloud. Do you think it's going to thunder?
(Funky? Where the heck did he hear "Funky"?)
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