Your vocabulary is coming fast and furious these days.
Last week, Dad taught you the word surreal.
Context: You wanted your giant stuffed horse (that an adult can sit on -- don't ask) to do "work" with the abacus while we were all away during the day. The monkey was also doing work -- he was writing poems.
If we mention the horse or monkey's work, you say, "that's so surreal!" Sometimes the word pops up in conjunction with Myra, and we all have a good laugh.
This weekend, you've had a fever and a cold that, I'm sure, will drag on a couple of days. You are extra sweet when you are sick. This morning you placed your (very warm) hands on my cheeks and said, "you are a sweet mommy." And then my heart exploded.
Later in the afternoon, I had to run errands. Usually we go together, but today you stayed home with Dad. You haven't been big on actually speaking into the phone until recently. And today was my day. Dad told you I was on the phone and when he put it up to your face, I heard a small voice: "I love you." There, in the toilet paper aisle of Target, I wished I could zap myself home; that moment, all I wanted was to hold you and stroke your wild hair. To hear that voice, the voice of my girl, hot and weary -- that was something else. It wasn't a bit surreal, not at all.