The Devil Finds Work

One last Max-Centric post:

Max and I are hanging out at home (cleaning, honey, cleaning!) before it's time to go pick up Katie and fill-in-the-blank. We're watching snow fall and listening to the radio. Max must know there's some competition coming, 'cause he's been amping up The Cute. He's also been freaking out when people change his diaper. You forget about that, though, when he pulls stuff like the following:

Max was fixing the little wooden stove that Auntie B got him. He was back behind there working on something with his pliers, chatting away happily with himself, making sense on his planet. I was sitting on the couch, surfing, when I look up and the boy is standing there, looking at me.

"Pocket."

By the way, you have to read everything Max says with climbing intonations. He's sort of asking questions with every word.

"Poc-kat", he says again. "Keys."

"You want keys for your pocket?"

"Uhhhh-hhnnn-nnn." This is Max-speak for all that cannot be enunciated. We've gotten so we can have entire conversations with Max where he says no actual words and everybody, at the end, comes out feeling like they've effectively communicated. It's like the reverse of the teachers and the kids in Peanuts. Or, more accurately, like the time my Dad visited me in Mexico and, at a party, had a (very) drunken (both participants) conversation with the host. My Dad, to this day, swears they told each other their live's stories and solved many a world problem. That's "Uhhh-nnnn-nnnn".

So I get keys for Max's pocket. He's still standing there.

"Money", he says.

"What?"

"Money", and the most devilish of grins spreads across his face.

"You want money. Money for your pocket."

"Uh-nnnnn-nnn-nn."

I get him 37 cents to jangle in his other pocket and he does so as he walks around the house, making sure he maximizes the sonic qualities of his cargo with each emphatic step.

I'm posting this ridiculous picture of him in my boots as revenge for not getting my 37 cents back.