The other day, on a walk, the boy looked up at me and asked, “Hey, Mom, what’s ‘misery’?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s when you’re very, very sad about something. Why do you ask?”
“’Cause it’s in that song, you know,” and here he began to sing, “‘Put me out, put me out, put me out of misery.’”
And then today, while having breakfast, another one.
“Hey, Mom, what’s an owner?”
“Well, an owner is when you have something that belongs to you, you are it’s owner. Like you are the owner of your shirt because it’s yours. Why do you ask?” I’ve learned to ask that as a followup question for basically everything.
“‘Cause it’s in that song.”
“What song?” I asked.
And here he broke into song again, “Jojo was a man, who thought he was an owner.” After I stopped laughing, I gently corrected his lyrics.
All I know is I can never listen to “Blinded by the Light” with him in the car again.