While on a walk through the neighborhood this morning Leta started talking and didn’t stop until we got back inside and I stuck a sippy cup in her mouth. She provided running commentary on everything — the color of that tree which was different from the tree we just passed, that car over there, the curb, every flower and crack in the sidewalk. Nothing went unnoticed. At one point she started describing imaginary planes in the sky because SHE HAD BREATH TO SPARE AND HELL IF SHE WAS JUST GONNA SIT THERE AND HOLD IT.
“Are you listening to this?” I asked Jon as Leta identified another blade of grass.
“She’s an Armstrong, Heather,” he said. “That’s what we do.”
I shook my head.
“You have no idea, do you?” he said.
“No, I have every idea because there hasn’t been a single moment in the last five years WHEN YOUR MOUTH WASN’T RAPIDLY DESCRIBING THOSE IDEAS IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL.”
