So, two-three year olds come with an independent streak that would drive Mother Theresa to hysteria, but they also begin to reveal an imagination that would do TS Eliot proud! I LOVE the glimpses I get into Punk's little world when he's unguardedly lost between fiction and reality.

The scene: Pushing the loaded cart out of WinCo, passing another cart with a chubby-faced cherub ogling us right back.
Punk: Oooooh! Cute baby!
Me: Yeah, he is a cutie!
Punk: (cupping his hands in front of him and looking deep into them like he's holding something incredibly tiny) I have a baby.
Me: Oh, you do?
Punk: She wants a kiss.
I bend down and plant a smooch in the air hovering above his cupped hands.
Me: Is it a boy baby or a girl baby? (note: I only asked this to confirm a theory)
Punk: It's a girl baby (note: Theory confirmed. All babies are girls--even Punk was a girl when he was a baby--see what I mean about the blurry line between fact and fiction?!)
Me: What's her name?
Punk: (pondering with screwed up lips and a head that tips from one side to the other) Mmmm...uuuuuuh.... Baby Wiberia.

Sigh. Baby Liberia indeed.