The Thinking Minority

Davis and I sat on my Big Comfy Chair today. I leaned it back, put up the footrest. My feet reached the rest, and Davis's feet stopped just past my knee (it used to be they wouldn't reach the edge of the seat).

"I need more woom, Daddy."

So I tipped myself to one side, squeezing into the corner so he could fit. This, too, is relatively new. In a few months, or a year, or an eyeblink, we'll be fighting for the chair. I stopped fighting my Dad for the chair when I realized that his pocket change always fell out when he reclined. From then on, I would let him have the chair, and I would scrounge for loose change.

I think I'll buy a second chair.

"We're making a ten, Daddy!" Davis was all delight and surprise. I asked him to repeat that. Twice. And again. "Yeah, a ten. I'm a One, and you're a Zewo." This is funny, and I laugh, but a bit uneasily: I am the Zero. Davis said, "there's a zewo on your shirt." He pronounced it more like "shut." I saw nothing, but maybe that was the joke.

Later tonight, I tucked him into bed; the sheet tightly fitted to his body. He laid on his back and said something that I didn't quite understand, ending with "can't get into his cave." I noticed he was trying to push his hand under the sheet. I asked him what he had said.

"Teke can't get into his cave!" It rhymed with Becky. I said it out loud. Did I have that right? "Yeah, Teke!" And how was that spelled? "T-E-K-E! Teke is my weft hand."

His right hand was "Medi." Like Betty. But funnier. I am a little afraid to ask him to name the rest of his body parts. But, for the record, his little sister's giant plush cat is now called "Mr. Cellphone."

"Webster" is the kitchen trash can.