Last night, after Wayne had brushed his teeth, he was blowing toward Tyler. (I hate when people do that to me, but Tyler doesn't seem to mind). In fact, Tyler said, "You have pretty air."
My son. I love him so.
(We won't get into his morbid conversation with us last night: something about - do we wish he was dead? him dying at 38, 57 or 58-7. What is 58-7? We don't know either. Yeah - still figuring out this dying thing, I guess).