I am expecting a call from the phone company, something along the lines of, �Nancy? We�re a little concerned that you call your voicemail several times a day to listen to that one message you have saved. All we�re saying is that maybe you should talk it over with your therapist. It seems slightly obsessive.�

J must have asked me well over six hundred questions in the space of four hours last night. �Mom, are we there yet? Why didn�t we take the bus? Did you know I don�t like to walk for along time? Did you know my feet are hurting a lot? Can we get a milkshake? Why not? Are we going to the taco place first? Are we going to the taco place first? Do we have to walk home, too? Why can�t we take a taxi? Are we almost at the taco place? Is there a long line? How come I never get to take the money out of the machine? Why? Can you lift me up? Is that my taco? Are you eating a vegetarian fajito burrito? Can I get the stuff? Can I have a soda? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy? How come I never get a soda? Did you get me ice for my water?�

I love this child like there's no tomorrow, but: Oh. My. Goodness.

After that, I feel I'm entitled to listen to my little archived voicemail, maybe even twice if I like.

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