He slings the long white strap of one of my old purses over his tiny shoulder and drags it into the living room.
"Bye-bye, Mama!" he shouts over his shoulder to me.
"Bye-bye, baby. Love you," I respond as he turns the corner. "Where are you going?"
"Goin' shopping, Mama. Go get groceries," he says.
A few minutes go by, and I inquire, "What kind of groceries?"
"Baby groceries," he explains.
Thinking he might be referring to the actual size of a grocery item, I ask for further details.
"What kind of baby groceries?"
"Milk, Mama," he states very matter of fact. "Diapers."
"Great!" I say, thrilled he's finally taking some responsibility around here. "Here are the keys."