"Say hello to my little friend."
(with a bad accent, of course.)
Grandma is not at all amused by our making light of the injury to poor little Tim. He's all mad because I won't let him go back to school and show all his friends his wound with all the strings in it.
Little boys sure are morbid.
Stinky, on the other hand, is rapidly careening toward adolescence. His, like, every other, like, word now is, like, "like". I know I use the word, but sometime around college, when my bratty sister told me it was extremely annoying, I made a concerted effort to reduce my like-abuse. Now, I see what she was, like, talking about.
It is funny, though, to see him try to emulate the very strong and vivid personalities that make up television these days. You know, the people who are generally on television are quite captivating in one way or another. He's weighing their mannerisms, actions, and words, and trying to see if he can fit them into his own arsenal in his quest to cool-dom.
I hate to break it to him - he's a really bad cross betwixt John and I. He'll never be cool. But my goodness that boy is handsome, and he has a wicked imagination. He won't be popular, but he will break a few hearts. Girls can be real suckers for the handsome, withdrawn writer type. Heavens knows I was. Lucky for me my shy writer likes chubby, silly, flightless hags.