Toys (not necessarily in the attic, but in something else)

Two nights ago, I was putting some laundry in the washer. My little shadow came up behind me and said, “Tractor hot. Tractor hot.”

I thought nothing of it, really – I repeated what he said: “Tractor hot?” And he nodded. Me – I’m just proud when he strings together semi-coherent words. It doesn’t really matter if the context doesn't make sense. (After all, it’s almost winter, and we don’t own a tractor. But I'm quibbling.)

So I’m standing at the washer, minding my own business, putting the rest of the whites in. And he repeats himself and starts tugging at my pants: “Tractor hot. Daddy, tractor hot.”

“Tractor hot? Better go cool it off!” I told him.

Suddenly, my wife SPRINTS down the hallway and starts spouting obscenities like she’d just hit her toe on the end table. I find this a little odd, so I closed the lid of the washer and saunter into the kitchen. The visual inventory I took:

- One (1) chair at the kitchen counter in front of the microwave
- One (1) microwave door, open
- One (1) small metal tractor, about an inch high and two inches long, in the middle of the microwave, with semi-melted wheels
- One (1) small hay wagon, about a half-inch high and two inches long, also in the microwave
- Timer on the microwave read 1:26.

Tractor hot, indeed!