"Mom, what would you rather kiss--a hobo's foot or me?" little kid interrupted me for the 1864th time while I was trying to write an article today.
"I don't know, I'd have to meet the hobo."
Remember when he used to get all riled up over who had the softest nose, him or Murphy? Because he couldn't stand me telling our dog that his nose was soft since it somehow indicated that his own nose was less desirable.
"You don't love me!" He declared after hearing that I wanted to meet the hobo.
"I love you so much that I wore you in a cloth sling around my neck for the better part of 15 months and I let you go overdue when you lived in my stomach. A hobo's foot most likely wouldn't interrupt the writing I really need to finish. I love you so, so, so much that I'm going to invite you to be quiet so I can do my job and we can just bask in the love."
"I bet you love that dead squirrel in the yard more than you love me."
"I'd have to get to know him."
THESE ARE THE CONDITIONS I WORK UNDER.
Big Kid is home and is fine, by the way, we both survived the trip to St. Augustine.
And yes, someone does need to pick up that dead squirrel.