At bedtime the other night:
Henry: James is cute, Mama.
Me: Yes, he is.
Henry: I'm cute, too.
Me: Yes, you are.
Henry: You're not cute. Daddy's not cute.
Me: No, we're not.
Henry: You're not like us.
***
James has developed a little shtick that is somewhere between fantasy play and an extended joke. It involves a little gray stuffed cat that he has grown attached to. "MY kitty-kitty," he says. When he wants to nurse, he says, "Kitty nuh (nurse)" and holds the toy to my chest before he takes a turn. This tickles him greatly. But last night, he didn't have the cat at hand. "Meow," he said. "Kitty nuh." He started to nurse, then pulled away to say again, "Meow," to make sure I got it.
***
We are sick again. Peter and I were knocked off our feet for the better part of a week, and James is awake 10 or more times each night, coughing. We were sick this time last year too, for weeks. I used to love winter, but right now, it feels like little more than a season of sickness and sorrow. I'm looking forward to spring, and also to one day loving winter again.
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