My Son
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I like how it ends with boots.
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My son: Dad, look at this guy. He’s boxing a kangaroo. Me: Well, that’s something to grow up to be. My son: No. He’s going to DIE.
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Courtesy of my seven-year old son who came up with the pattern himself (it’s three pieces of paper — no tape, of course) without instructions.
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Me: What some people do is imagine a pleasant meadow with some sheep jumping over a fence. You count them as they jump over. My son: Doesn’t work. Tried it. Me: Well, how many sheep did you count? My son: One. Me: One!? My Son: Only one showed up! Later, “Daddy, instead of sheep I’m…