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My Son Josh

 My son has started counting; I'm not sure he is aware of the meanings of the words, but he loves them. 

He will also lend his full attention to "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" He'll sit for this at any time; it's the book of choice in his Pre-K class, and he gives it the reverence that you might normally reserve for the Bible.

(Do I think that "Brown Bear" is a half-assed heap of blather paired with some great illustrations? I keep my own thoughts to myself.)

Josh has earned the title "Mr. Mayor" at his school, and he greets strangers with open arms. Literally. I'm stunned by his political skills, and I sometimes think I should be taking notes. 

The speech therapist wants me to withhold snacks until Josh articulates the words "Help me." There is an affiliated pantomime: You breathe into your hand, for "Hhhhelp," and you tap your own chest, for "mmmmeeee." Josh rolls his eyes when I attempt this; he seems to say, "Enough, Professor Dumbledore. You know what I want. Get the milk." 

But J's craftiest move is reserved for the speech therapist herself: As she introduces new "challenges," lessons to be taught in the playroom, Josh puts one hand on her arm and says, "Bye!" If she tries to continue talking, he becomes subtly firmer: "Bye. Bye. Bye."

Sometimes, I swear, the response becomes: "Yeah! Byeeee!"

Then he tears a leaf from a tree, pats his sister once on the head, and grabs my hand -- ready for home.
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