Where is it? Where is it?

My son's developed a new game. He runs through our small house, the patter of his feet echoing in every imaginable corner. He says, over and over "Where's that cricket? Where IS it?" And then, looking to the sky, the four corners, and the floor, he sings "Cricket? Cricket? Where are you my cricket!"

To be fair, I blame my brother.

Last Monday, my brother came to visit us. He was in Denver for a few days and wanted to drop by. He brought a girl with him too. When she walked in, she introduced herself to my children. Her name?

Cricket.

I think you can imagine what happened next! Being two, Carter associates the word "Cricket" with neither a person nor a drawn out game from across the pond, but with a small black insect, whose chirps he hears resonating from our basement every evening. He ran throughout the house screaming "Cricket! Cricket! Where ARE you?!?!?" to which Chris's friend would reply "I'm right HERE!". He'd squeal in the way every delighted two-year-old squeals and run into her arms, laughing.

Unfortunately, he's been unable to find his cricket for a week now. His queries have become more pleading and less playful in the past few days. I suspect he's begun to miss her. Or, perhaps, to once again associate her name with that small black chirper in the basement.