"Babyyyyyy..." you hear Brooklyn whine from the other room. "What's wrong?" you ask, coming into the room to see the boy haphazardly flopped on the couch, limbs sticking out from all over the place. "What in the world?" you mutter upon seeing such a sight. "I don't feel gooooood," he whines again. "What's wrong?" you reiterate your earlier question. "My throat huuuurts." "Well, for someone with a sore throat, you're doing an awful lot of whining," you state. "Can I have some ice cream please?" "We don't have any. How about a popsicle instead?" "I guess," he says, pouting slightly. "You're pathetic," you say good-naturedly, turning to head for the kitchen in pursuit of the popsicle. When you return with it, Brooklyn's face lights up like a little kid's on Christmas morning. You chuckle and ruffle his hair, "Here you go, brookie," you tease in a motherly tone as you hand him the frozen treat.
