Whenever we’re driving, Jack says that I can have an entire conversation by myself, and he never has to comment. I ask questions and then answer them myself. Then go on a rant about how things used to be when I was young (or something). I can talk. A lot.
Sometimes Jack has a lot to say. Sometimes not so much.
Jack: Oh look, the barber shop closed.
me: Awwww. What did the sign say?
Jack: Closed.
me: Oh.
Sh*t My 6-Year-Old Says (but he's 18 now) 