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I’m in the boys’ room changing Zachary when Milo walks up to me. “Lotsa water, mommy,” he tells me. “What do you mean, lots of water? You need a drink?” I ask him. Milo just looks at me and repeats himself. “Looooootsa water,” he says airily as he walks out of the room. I probably should have been more alarmed, but honestly, that child talks so much that I just kind of only half-listen sometimes, especially when I haven’t head a loud crash or an “UH OH” coming from the next room.
Of course, what he meant by “lotsa water” was that while I was in the other room for two minutes, he’d somehow unscrewed the top of my very full water bottle and dumped it all over the coffee table and the rug. My cell phone and kindle were taking a nice lazy swim down the gently flowing creek on the table, while the rug was a saturated marshland of water and smashed, soggy goldfish crackers. I looked at him. He pointed to the table. “Lotsa water,” he repeats.
Preschool cannot come fast enough.
