Because he was the one who cooked.

On the supper menu tonight, for Mog, was a hot dog, cottage cheese, and blueberry Special K. Delicious and nutritious. Sort of.
For me, it was a peanut butter cookie with melted chocolate chip topping and a Michelob Ultra.

I had a scary moment eating the cookie where I choked and had to gasp for breath. The only thing I could think was that it would be days before anyone found my body and I haven't listed any emergency contact with my landlord yet, so whom would they even know to call? It was a moment almost identical in frantic-ness (yeah, it's not a word--who cares?) to Miranda's moment on that Sex & the City episode where she chokes on Chinese takeout and worries that no one will find her until the neighbors note the smell coming from her apartment and the police open her door to find her cat eating her face. Except I had this terrible picture in my mind of Mog curled up next to my body on the kitchen floor, keening like a lost puppy. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? He'd totally be still in front of the tv, watching the Backyardigans, almost perfectly content, except for intermittently yelling "I want cheese!" and getting more and more ticked off when no one delivered it directly into his grubby little paws.

Speaking of Mog (What a lousy excuse for a transition--you'll have to excuse me; the lack of blogging is obviously affecting my mad skillz.), he is speaking in sentences more and more often, and putting together longer and more complex sentences. Today in the library, he told me, "I wanna go upstairs, say hi to Cake." I looked at him, stunned, like "Holy shit--you are such a real PERSON! When did that happen?" (Cake, by the way, is my [our] savior. After all, who doesn't love Cake?)

Other stunning and amazing sentences from my incredible, wonderful, super-intelligent son include the following:
"Ah man, Elmo, I wanted that bite!" (When Elmo apparently ate the last bite of his chicken McNugget. You've gotta watch those stuffed Sesame Street characters--they're sneaky.)
"What you wanna do, Bob, what you wanna do? You wanna play, Bob? Hey, Bob, you wanna play choo-choo?" (When he was lying down with Bob the stuffed monkey and they were BOTH supposed to be sleeping.)

I can totally see myself morphing into THAT mom, that divorced single mom who smothers her son with all of the love and attention that would otherwise have been split between him and her husband. Don't worry, though: I'm starting to set aside extra money in his college fund to pay for his therapy. And possibly for the personal trainer he'll need to help him get back into shape after all these hot dogs.