"My butt has to go caca," he said to me, "I ate some food in my tummy, and my butt said, ‘I have to go caca’"

Jaimito’s body parts each have a distinctive personality.  His toes say "hi", his arms are tired, his tummy is hungry, his legs have needs, his mouth has desires, and his little butt tells him when it has to go caca.  Laura tells me that she had the same whimsical fancies as a young girl.  Everything was magical, fantastical, and lyrical, all broadcasting in a tapestry of dialog to which we must listen and wonder. 

Jaimito’s little black pools for eyes twinkled at me.  "Daddy, my toes are saying hi" as if they had a mind of their own, their own desires, their own spirit. 

Another time, "Daddy, my arms are sad," he said, his shoulders slumped over. 

He was bummed about something and so I asked him, "Why are your arms sad?"

"I don’t know, just because."

I picked him up, hugged his arms and talked to his arms asking why they were sad.  I don’t remember if he ever told me why, but after a few minutes he said, "My arms aren’t sad anymore.  They feel better."

"I’m glad your arms feel better, little boy."