We call him Charlie. And Chachi. And Chully.
He’s the third boy, and he makes life much more interesting. Sweeter, too.
Here are a few Charlie-isms, recently noted.
*A few weeks ago, in the ER, as the respiratory therapists treated his croup. It was said in a squeaky little voice: “Don’t wrap me up like a bandage.”
*Today, sitting on the couch before school with a truly worried look: “I really hope I’m on the nice list.”
*The last time we went to the cabin: “Mom, where’s Olive?” (Olive was my parents’ German shorthair pointer who passed away this fall). “She went to live in Heaven,” I reminded him. “Oh, she died in the war,” Charlie surmised.
*At Temple Square as we gazed at the Christmas lights and the nativity, “Dad, why does Jesus live in outer space?”
*Loudly yesterday, as the mailman handed me a package on the porch, “Why does he have that big beard? What does it help him do?”
“It helps him look like a lumbersexual hipster,” I should’ve responded, but I was hurrying to shut the door while shushing him.
Not sure what I would do without my Charlie.