A conversation I had with Pete today:
Me: Would you like to read a book?
Petey, assertively: DUCK.
Me, proud as can be: Oh, you want to read about a duck? We can read about the duck. Why don't you go get the book about the duck and I'll read it to you.
When the object of my pride and affection made no move to fetch the duck book, naturally I offered to get it for him and put it on a silver platter.
Me: You want Mommy to get the duck book? I could go get the duck book and we could read it. Shall I go get the duck book?
Taking that as a yes, I began a mental review of the options: We could be talking about the one book we own that is actually about ducks, or, and less auspiciously, it could be any of the three dozen others that include ducks in their subject matter, as does anything ever written by Sandra Boynton. I made the trek and came back, my arms piled high with books about ducks (fish, geese, cats, rabbits, and Curious George).
And it was at this point, as I hefted my unbudging offspring without result, that I found out his foot was STUCK in the recliner arm and, presumably, had been for the entirety of our conversation