Charlie Says

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.

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