Leigh is in bed, sick with the post-Christmas stomach bug that we've been passing around. (I'm not entirely free of it, myself, but am more conscious than yesterday.) So I'm on Isk duty. I told Isk that I had to do some writing, because I'm not done my [community profile] fringe_exchange story yet (yup, I'm that asshole holding up reveal. Well, probably not the only one). "I have to finish this story, because it's a gift for someone, and they want to get their gift," I explained, hoping that he'd consent to go sit in the den with the TV on and let me write in the dining room.

"I want to write a story for C!" he said. "For her present!" So he sits down across from me and demands paper and crayons, and gets to work.

Two minutes later:

"I am writing a story for C's mom," he says, now. "How do you spell Sherlock?"

"What is Sherlock going to do in your story?"

"Amazing things."

I spell Sherlock. He carefully writes each letter (replacing the ones he can't write with circles and squiggles--hey, he's only four), and then draws a vaguely humanoid figure at the top.

"J-J-J," he says. "J is the first letter in John. This is a story of Sherlock and John." He draws a J. I help him with the rest (that silent H is a bitch, really, when you think about it). He adds another humanoid figure at the bottom of the page.

He gets a new piece of paper. "How do you spell tiger?"
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amalnahurriyeh: XF: Plastic Flamingo from Acadia, with text "bring it on." (Default)
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