On the bus

Sometime around the middle of last week, Samson started saying "bus." But he doesn't just say it, he cries it out from the depths of his soul. He's like a little Paul Revere warning his countrymen of an impending British attack. Except it's just Vicki and me. And buses on our street.

The last letter gets extra emphasis and sibilance so that what you hear is more like "BUSSSSSSS."

Of course he can't say "truck," so basically anything bigger than our Subaru gets tagged with the bus moniker. You can imagine how often we heard this from the backseat while traveling on I-95. Strangely enough, it never gets old.

We drove home on Saturday night, figuring that he could sleep the whole way since we'd be on the road in the dark and during his normal bedtime hours.

Somewhere in southern Connecticut, we passed a bus depot. Thank God Sam was sleeping or he might have exploded.