Gib changing Fenn's diaper about 6:45 a.m. . . .
Fenn in a sleepy voice, "My wing-ding is hanging out."
Gib, "Yeah, your wing-ding is."
Fenn, "I just don't know about that crazy wing-ding."

Later on when I told Great-Grandma Tucker about it she laughed and said, "Just tell him he better take care of it, no matter what!"

In a sticky sweet voice, Fenn says, "Daddy, I'm rubbing your face. Daddy, I'm touching your face and rubbing it."

Daddy laying there relaxed on the couch, "I know you are buddy."

Fenn in a not so sweet, but a touch of evil says, "Daddy, I'm rubbing your face with my hands. And they've been on my bottom."

I was kicking a soccer ball back and forth with Fenn. He decided to toss it up in the air and kick it. . .
Me, "Oh, your getting tricky now?"
Fenn (in a very, that was stupid question tone), "Yeah! I'm your son."