Saturday morning started out as usual – John John being peckish from the word Go. He ate a purple pluot while the remainder of breakfast was being made.
“Mama, this pluot is made from grapes,” he told me.
“Hmm,” I said, “Weird.”
John responded more appropriately, “You mean it’s a similar color to grapes.”
“Yeah,” said John John.
Then he watched me at the stove from a stool for awhile. After a bit he said, “I don’t feel good, Mama,” in the most normal voice. He didn’t seem like he didn’t feel good, so I asked him, “Why do you think you don’t feel good?”
“It’s because I ate too many bugs!”
He wasn’t sick, by the way. Moments after eating a hearty breakfast, he was dancing around like a crazy bird flapping to Mendelssohn.
Speaking of birds, on Sunday morning, also during the breakfast making ritual, he says to John, “Papa, you know the one where the pigeon turns into a black pigeon at the end?”
“No,” said John, “Which one?”
“The one where the pigeon turns into a black pigeon at the end when the music stops.”
“I don’t have any idea what you are talking about,” John said.
“I don’t have any idea, too,” was John John’s reply.
I did, but I kept that to myself because of the cuteness.
