Charles has turned against my photography.
Charles: Don’t take picture of me!
Charles: No pictures!
Dad: But Charles, Mom likes it when I take pictures of you. She thinks it is nice.
Charles: It not nice for me!
Charles didn’t elaborate on what, exactly, wasn’t nice about it.
Charles is also succumbing to materialism. He came in to my office the other day, sniffling, and I had to comfort him by letting him sit in my lap. He then poured out his heart to me, telling me of what was troubling him.
Charles: You got lots of stuff in here.
Dad: Yes, Daddy’s office has lots of stuff in it.
Charles: [pathetic little voice] My office not have a lot of stuff in it.
[Charles hugs Dad’s arm in misery]
Today Charles was scavenging in my office for screwdrivers, leading off the hunt with a conversation that, for some reason, triggered a deep sense of deja vú.
[Charles climbs in to Dad’s lap]
Charles: You got a screwdriver in yous [sic] office.
Dad: Yes. I need to use them now and then.
Charles: [pathetic little voice] My office not have a screwdriver in it.
[Charles hugs Dad’s arm in misery and makes a grab for the screwdriver]
Charles then proceeded through my drawers, eventually gathering up three screwdrivers. I can see the future, and it involves a great circle of office supply migrations.