wishful thinking

I'll be honest. This afternoon was pretty miserable. There I was, in the pouring rain, toting two cranky boys from the tile store to the post office to the bank. Fun times. In fact, most of the two-hour excursion was set to the whiney two-year-old tune of, "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. IWANNA GO HOME!"

Yup, fun times.

So as we pulled into the driveway (finally), I expected Dylan (of whiney two-year-old fame) to be ecstatic. I turned around to talk to him.

ME: Dylan where are we?

DYLAN: Mommy's house.

(Okay, not bad. I'll take it.)

ME: Is it Daddy's house too?

DYLAN: Uh-huh

(always the eloquent one, that boy)

ME: Is it Dylan's house too?

DYLAN: Uh-huh

(again, very verbose)

ME: Is it Logan's house too?

This time he stops to think. And says...

DYLAN: No. Baby lives there. (pointing to our neighbor's house)

Wishful thinking, my boy. Wishful thinking.