H, your breath smells like fresh roses in the springtime.

Mine, on the other hand, apparently does not.

See, we were getting ready for bed last night and I turned and said something to you.

You contorted your face in disgust and without hesitation said:

“Aghh. Your breath smells like fart.”

Now I know that a four-year-old does not need to be running around saying “fart” all the time – when “toot” will do just as good in nearly every situation.

But it was hard to keep a straight face – so hard that we didn’t.

Everyone had a good laugh.

I love you.

-Dad

H, “you are a bomber.”

At least that is what you called me this morning.

It’s a term that you have started using more frequently the last few weeks.

I am not sure exactly what it means.

But you typically call us, or others, this when we do something you don’t like.

Not mad so much as playfully disagreeing.

From context clues, I think it translates approximately as “Jerk,” said with a smile.

But that is just a guess.

I will ask you tonight and report back here on the precise definition.

A bomber is:

“A person that forgets things.”

Ha, I love it.

Stop growing up so fast.

Please?

I love you.

-Dad

H, oh my word, let me tell you how cows fart.

See, driving to Ruidoso we had the most ridiculous conversation ever.

I thought mom was gonna die laughing.

It started when we drove past a field full of grazing cows.

And ended with me not understanding what you said.

Me: “I’m gonna put you in that pasture with those cows?”

You: “You mean me?!”

Me: “Yes you.”

You: “Am I going to farm them?”

Me: “Yes, they’re going to fart you!”

Somehow I thought you were asking if they were going to fart on you and I was just trying to sass you back.

You looked at me like I had lost my mind.

I haven’t.

But I might need my ears checked.

I love you.

-Dad