One of Henry's favorite conversational gambits for several months now is to ask, of any random thing, "what do you think X is saying?" ("What do you think that cat is saying? What do you think that truck is saying? What do you think the bed is saying?") We like to imagine that he is working on expanding his powers of empathy, although it often feels to me as if he is instead intent on forcing me to confront how utterly pedestrian my own imagination is. ("Meow. Here I come down the street. Get into me and close your eyes!")
Tonight at dinner we were running through a series of these questions. We got to "What do you think the rooms of our house are saying?"
"I don't know," I said. "What do YOU think they are saying?"
"Don't let any mosquitos come into me."
And next: "What do you think the sink is saying?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Rub-a-dub-dub, what can I scrub?"
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