I have many things to share with you, dear reader(s), and I will, don't worry. But, in the mean time, I leave you with this snippet of conversation, which captures the verbal and rhetorical advances he's made since I last wrote. Milo, after throwing a colossal fit and weedling his way into being rocked to sleep: "Mama, I like to rock."
Me: "I like to rock, too."
Milo: "I like rocket ships. Do you like rocket ships?"
Me: "I do."
Milo: "I don't like bugs. Do you like bugs?"
Me: "I like some bugs. Ladybugs are bugs. Butterflies are bugs."
Milo: "No, they not."
Me: "They are bugs."
Milo: "No, they not — I like them. Can you sing a song now?"
I grasped mentally for a song about bugs, then defaulted to Beatles without explaining myself to him, but felt superior nonetheless.