Wormy in my Pocket

"Miss E-bizbiz, I got to put the wormy in my pocket."

"Oh, Ok," I reply, mindlessly stirring some mac and cheese. "Wait, what?!"

"I got to put the wormy in my pocket, Miss E-bizbiz," he informed me again.

"The what in your pocket?" I asked, hoping his little fist held an imaginary creature.

"The wormy! In my pocket!"

"Little man, I cannot understand what you are saying. Show me what is in your hand."

As his little fingers spread, I saw what he meant by "little wormy." What was left of an earthworm, covered in lint, curled up in his palm.

"Outside with that! Now! Worms stay outside." I marched him to the back door so he could return the wormy. From ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Ah, the wonders of three-year-olds. No boundaries. No rules. Just discovering.

Seriously, though. Worms stay outside.