This afternoon, Nate came running into our bedroom holding a pair of little boy pants and a green long-sleeved t-shirt. He held them up to James and me and gleefully exclaimed one of his typical sing-song sentences… something that sounds like English, but it well… isn’t.
The clothes were of unknown origin, though I suspected they were originally folded in the laundry basket. “Nate, where did you get those clothes? Are they clean?”
He looks at me for a moment, blinks his perfect eyelashes, drops to one knee, and starts using the pants like a rag; cleaning the rug.
At least he knows about cleaning, right? I’m claiming victory.
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