Conversations at my house this week:
The almost-two-year old, pointing out the window at the first snow of the year, with her most earnest tattle-tale expression, ever:
The newly potty-trained:
"Kimber, Kimber! I pooped in the toilet!"
"Yes you did! What a big girl!"
"I made a big poop!"
"Yes, that is a big one!"
"Yeah, I looks like my dad."
(You know I emailed that one along to her parents.)
My fifth child, after everyone else has been talking about the snow for three hours and bemoaning the fact that buses are still running on schedule, and he gets on his backpack and goes to the door:
"Mom! It snowed!!!!!!"
The same son, after I ask him what he's doing to the block of cheese:
"Trying to cut it."
"Why don't you use this stuff? It's already sliced."
"Who cut it?"
"Probably nobody–they probably pour it all onto a big sheet and then a machine slices it into squares and they stack it up, I don't know.
"Unless it comes out of the cow that way."
Uh. Yeah. Unless that.