It's the medicine talking...

So, Mr. Baseball has been sick since we got home from our spring break trip to Utah (more pictures later) and he came out of his room about five minutes ago, face all pillow-pressed and hair askew:

Mr Baseball: "Dad...the chair...explain...my foot...what..expect?"

Me: "What?"

Mr Baseball: "I'm just...the shelf...I'm needing...the escalator..."

Me: "Son, You haven't made a clear sentence."

Mr. Baseball: "That's because I don't have any clear sentence(sic)"

All the time, he was rubbing the side of his head with the palm of his right hand and giving me a half smile as if he were about to laugh at a joke he hadn't yet told me. I asked him if he needed something and he managed a "No," before walking back into his room and going back to sleep.

Go figure.