“Sing.” Willow proudly nods once and continues. “I sing… to… the… moon… and… I… look… lick-ee?”
“Like.”
“Like! Your…?”
“You got it. Keep going.” He gently rubs her back for a second to encourage her.
“Your fr… frrrr…”
Demyen squints dramatically at the box. “That’s a tough one. Need help?”
“Can I sound it out?”
“That’s usually what we’d do, isn’t it? But I’m thinking this time, it might be one of those tricky bastards.”
“Demyen!” I gasp, then laugh. “Language!”
Willow smiles up at me. “It’s okay, Mommy. I know I’m not allowed to say bad words. Only grownups can.”
Oh, dear Lord… what sort of bad words has she learned “not to say”? I smile and rub her back just like Demyen did, though I shoot him a what the heck?! look, to which he responds with a not-so-apologetic shrug.
“Frrr… f
