Fort!

And, if you come inside, he might “throw you in the garbage.” In fact, if you do just about anything these days, he will, he says, throw you in the garbage. Or, for the more environmentally minded of you, “in the compost.” Or “out the window.” Which, I suppose, is better than, “I flush you down the toilet,” or, heaven forbid, “I put you in the oven and it be hot and I burn you all up and make cookies and you be yummy.”

Still, it’s not like it’s all fun and games for him, always throwing people out of windows and burning them up in ovens and all. He suffers, too. “Do you remember?” he’ll ask: “You remember when the lion bite me? In my bed? At the zoo?” And if you think the lions are bad, just wait until you hear about the fishies, biting his fingers in the night, giving him owies. “I don’t like that doggie,” he says, pointing to a picture in a book. “He bite me.”

He’s working something through that exploding little brain of his, is our Isaac. Cheerfully navigating our most violent demises and attacks to his person by wild (and domesticated) animals while planting kisses on our knees and mucking about with syntax. “I love you,” he says, over and over: “I love you too much.”