Not chocolate

My youngest son is a little delight. Don't get me wrong, he is still two years old, and reminds me of that fact in grand style. His tantrums are loud and at times destructive. But when compared to those of his autistic brother's, his are downright cute.

He loves to snuggle and cuddle, and since he is my baby and my last child, I treasure those moments especially. A few nights ago he had his little arms wrapped around my neck and was kissing my cheek and lips. I squeezed him tight. He nestled into my neck and caressed my dark hair, which has grown long in these past months.

"Is soft." What a sweetie.

"Why, thank you, 'L'. I washed it just for you." He inhaled.

"Smell good." Patted me again.

"Oh, that's nice."

"Is not chocolate." The snuggly moment was over as I burst into laughter.

Quite an observation. I'm just glad that he ignores the gray that insists on creeping into my hair. Because what would he call that?