My Son Gollum

I have become convinced that my son may, in fact, be Gollum. Or at least related to Gollum, possibly on his mother’s side. I think you’ll find the evidence I present to be quite compelling:

1.       His default erect stance is not standing, nor sitting, but a deep squat better suited to relieving one’s self in nature or ambushing enemies from the bushes with a ninja death blow.

2.       He has an unnatural disdain for anything with hairy feet. Especially me.

3.       He’s started adding plurals to his plurals, as in the following example:

Me: You want to go to the park today, Bub?

Bub: Feed the duckses? Yes, we feed the duckses. I need a coat. And mittenses. And shoeses for my feetses.

4.       He’s started referring to Bankie as his Precious.

5.       Today he was whining hard-core about something trivial, like hunger. I told him he was speeding down a one-way street to Time Out Land. This apparently gave him pause to reflect, as a minute later, I was sitting in the living room, waiting for him to gather himself and come in. He huddled himself in the hallway, Gollum-squatted, and had an entire conversation with himself that I could just barely make out:

Do we wants a time out? No, don’t want time out. We stop crying, no get a time out. Yes, yes, Bub. Why are you crying, Bub? No, no crying. No time out. Bub, no crying, no get time out. Yes, we stops crying. Then we KILL the hobbitses. (Okay, I made that last one up)

6.       See for yourself:

Creepy, right?