Worry

Wilder heard the song "American Pie" a couple of weeks ago, and he's been singing and humming the main refrain ever since. You know it:

So bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
And good 'ol boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing 'This'll be the day that I die ....'

Today, on a drive to a nearby place to play, the boys and I decided to listen to the whole song. And, of course, that refrain is repeated many times throughout the song, along with many other lyrics. We're nearing the end of the song, as well as nearing our destination, and Hunter pipes up loudly from the back seat:

"Mama? What's whiskey?"

The whole damn song and that boy asks that question. I mean, he could ask dozens of other things. What's a Chevy? What's a levee? What's a swelter? What's a fallout shelter? (This post is starting to sound very Seussian ...)

Anyway, the fact that he asked about whiskey explains a lot in terms of why Jerry and I worry about him sometimes. He has this knack for zeroing in on the very thing you hope he won't. Like how he grabs my friends' breasts sometimes. He could touch their hair, or ask them what color eyes they have.

But nope. It's the breasts.

Sigh.

So I answered his question: "It's something grown-ups drink sometimes."

H: "Can it make you sick?"

Seriously, how does he know this stuff?

"Yes, honey. It can make you sick. Very, very sick."

Oh Hunter honey ... I am going to have to keep a very, very close eye on you. Because you remind me of me. And that scares the living daylights out of me.