It’s my time to join the throes of parents keeping little records on their phones of the absurd sort of poetic things that their toddlers say. I ask you, where do the mornings go? And sometimes I don’t know what people are. Sometimes I like people, and sometimes I don’t. These profound and simple questions and statements couple nicely with his BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM that echoes through the house. I run into his room. There’s a drop of applesauce on his floor.