"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.