“Mom,” he said from the back seat of the minivan, while eating a bag of his favorite candy. “Skittles are my sons.”
“Your sons?” He is sometimes hard to understand, and I assumed that was the case this time.
“Yep. My sons,” and popped another one in his mouth. “If I don’t eat them, they die.”
“Your sons? Like you are my son?”
“Yep. Except if I don’t eat them, they die.”
“They only live if you do eat them? Your sons, the Skittles?”
“Yep. They have to live in my tummy.” And he popped the last one in his mouth.
“Mom, you can have the bag. I’m all done.”