Voices Carry

Every night when dinner is ready, my wife will send Troy to come get me. If I’m upstairs, then he’ll stand downstairs in the entryway and yell up at the balcony. “Dada, dada, dada, dada!” He’ll go on and on until I walk to the balcony and acknowledge him. Then, he proceeds to say something to me in his unintelligible baby babble, which I interpret to mean something to the affect of, “Mama said dinner is ready, so if you want to eat, then you need to stop working and come downstairs.” I’ll thank him, wrap up what I’m doing, and head downstairs. I can hear him from all over the house. His little voice carries. I love it.