Today my son spoke his most coherent sentence yet. I was on the front porch waiting for Little’s bus and chatting with my sister on the cell. Bubba had gone inside and returned to my side, where I heard him say, “Momma, it’s the rooster.”
I turned to him and said, “I don’t know the rooster.”
He looked at me pretty hard, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Momma, I broke the rooster.”
This was one of four plates hanging on the wall to the left of our frig. The scene of the crime showed frig magnets, a stool, and a broken plate. My deduction is that he stood on the stool to reach a frig magnet and bumped his head on the plate – thus knocking it from it’s hook and sending it to it’s death. No worries. Every decorating show tells you to display things in odd numbers.
I am more shocked that the boy is four and this is the first broken dish.
I am even more grateful that he could tell me about it.
