“With pickles for his toes and a cherry for his nose, that’s the way my story goes.”

When I woke Vincent up for preschool this morning, he was laying on top of his hands. He looked at his hands then looked at me with those morning-Puck eyes and said, “My hands are ugly.”

He woke up singing yesterday morning, and he fell asleep last night in the middle of a word in the middle of a song (“Say say old playma-a-a-…”).

Meanwhile, Aidan’s lexicon contains only the words “cat” and “hi” and “bye-bye,” the last of which was new this weekend. No “mama,” which seems unjust. No “dada,” which makes me feel better.

What marvels is not how little he speaks compared to how hyper-verbal Vincent has always been, but how, even still, Aidan clearly understands everything said to him, and, even still, is pretty ingenious about communicating what he wants.

Ingenious, that is, when he’s not just grunting/whining and strenuously pointing.