Our morning walk took us to the end of the road, after going all the way up the big giant hill.
We tried the Elfin route, but a posse of hardhats were digging up the boardwalk, probably something to do with all the boards Fuss noticed were marked with pink dots of spray paint on our last outing.
Fuss was quite saftey conscious, reminding me to stop at Stop signs and vigilantly looking both ways for cars. Along the way we saw two planes, a black bird, a big truck, a giant boat on a trailer, a trailer with lights, and lots and lots of ants.
"Dada, I KILLED one!" Fuss proclaimed after stomping it flat.
These moments fill me with ambivalence. I don't want to stoke his bloodlust, but I can't tut tut him with any conviction when, in my youth, I committed multiple ant genocides on the very same dirt roads we were traversing.
I settled for a noncommittal "mmmmm" and moved us on down the road.
He's getting better about not charging into people's yards when something catches his eye- now he makes a point of telling me "Wanna see it, check it OUT!", knowing I won't let him go rushing in. Sometimes he's satisfied with being picked up and carried as close as we can get, sometimes he isn't and he'll sit down in the dirt and wail.
It doesn't last long, and we're on our way again.
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