“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
And this is how 90-plus percent of the conversations between myself and my three-and-a-half-year-old son Ethan (who claims to still be two, by the way) begin.
“My name is Butternut,” he tells me.
“Oh, OK. Hi Butternut.”
“Hi.”
“Is that Ethan Butternut Roe then?”
“No, just Butternut.”
“Just Butternut. OK. Like Cher or Madonna. Or Iggy.”
“Who’s Iggy?”
“Iggy? He’s a singer. He doesn’t like wearing shirts. And sometimes he wears diapers. He’s a very interesting man. He has a song called ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog.’ I could play it on my iPod for you.”
“Not right now, Daddy.”
“OK, Butternut. Maybe later. And thanks for telling me that your name is Butternut. I like to know these things.”
“You’re welcome. Now can you play with me?”
And that’s how 90-plus percent of our conversations end.