Rhyming is fun.

The boys are singing the perennial childhood favorite “The ants go marching.” Since they don’t know it well, they’re making up rhymes for each number; it’s interesting to see which turn out similar to the version I annoyed my parents with so many years ago. And then there’s this one, courtesy of the 8-year-old:
“The ants go marching twelve by twelve, the little one stops to go to hell, and they all go marching….”

More four-year-old worries

T: Tara.
(yes, he calls me by my first name; he’s done so for almost a year now. I’m not sure why, but it amuses me.)
Me: Yes?
T: I don’t know if when I grow up I’ll be able to love just one woman.
Me: Oh? You think you might love a man instead?
T looks at me like I’m absolutely crazy and have no idea what I’m talking about: Men aren’t any good! They only have seeds.
Me: Ah, and you’d need a woman who has eggs, so you can have babies?
T: Yeah.