So here I am, on a beautiful southern Sunday afternoon, listening to my kids and our neighbor friend coloring in the other room. Their chatter turned to counting and then the boys were counting by fives. That's when I heard it: the dreaded "fahv" from my own sweet boy. I asked him to say five, which he did just fine, but when the counting started out again, so did the fahv. I have to assume this is because it's practiced out loud with the entire class, but I found myself saying the infamous phrase with a smile on my face, "Wyatt, it's not fahv, it's five." He laughed and so did I. I'll keep correcting it, though I know he'll turn out just fine, like his daddy, and in truth, it makes me awfully happy to see that each place we live leaves a little imprint on us all.