Roasted rat, anyone?

I think someone swapped out March and April.  We're back to bundling up in coats.  Last Thursday Ben and I braved the chilly temperatures and enjoyed the bright sun at a local playground.  Ben has traditionally used the space below one of the jungle gyms as his "restaurant," and this time he arranged the menu as follows:

He then asked, "Do you want any died roasted rat?"

His understanding of death and its related vocabulary is (thankfully) somewhat stunted by lack of direct experience, although the passing of our cat last fall did provide an initial exposure.  We've gradually allowed a little more violence into his viewing repertoire.  He now prances around the play yard at school singing "Kill de wabbit, kill de wabbit, kill de wabbit!" a la Elmer Fudd.  He loves watching a DVD of the opera Hansel and Gretel, and in that production a rather gruesome burnt witch corpse is brought out at the end for all of the remaining cast to feast upon.  It saddens me a bit to have to give way to reality like this.  Death happens.  The kinds of death that people seem to take the most interest in are usually pretty violent.  I can't protect Ben from this reality forever, and I guess the honeymoon is over.

But back to sunshine:  Having enjoyed our rat, here's Ben and me cuddling on the jungle gym.

Here he is looking very sweet and contemplative.

And here he is tucking into his chocolate Easter rabbit -- ears first, of course.