“Let me out, let me out, let me out!” he yells as we beetle along the freeway at 65 mph.

“Don't be so stoopid, Mom's drivin yur nit wit, you'll be smooshed like a peach, road rash.”

He continues to flail, buck and kick much as he did in the old days.

“What is yur problem?” she asks in the vernacular.
“It be dirt,” he mutters , in a secret tone.
“What's dirty?”
“Dah window,” he whispers. I can see them in the rear view mirror. I can't work out why he should this share this information in such a furtive manner.
“Ooo that's not dirt, that's bird poop.”
“Bird poop?”
“Yeah, sure, it's not dirt it's just a lil ole drop a bird poop.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why dere is bird poop on dah car?”
“Er geez I don know. Bird flies. Bird poops. Happens to hit the car I guess.”
A brief silence follows.
“Birds are do poop and be fly too?” I do not like the way this conversation develops. It is already very difficult for his bottom to make contact with the toilet seat. I do not wish to provide him with further ammunition.
“Don't worry dear, we'll clean it up when we get home. It is on the outside of the window afterall.”
“Of course!” he snorts.
“Of course what dear?”
“Stoopid.”
“Pardon!”
“Stoopid!” he yells a little louder this time, just in case I didn't catch it the first time. Can someone save me from myself!
“I meant, 'what' is stoopid?”
“You coz dah birds are not fly in dah car, dey are fly in dah sky.” I ignore the mental gymnastics of my tiny bird brain and concentrate on driving.
“Stop dah car! You need be clean it now!”
“We'll be home in a jiffy! I'll clean it then.” We pull into the driveway and crawl into the garage. He's out in a trice with his usual fight or flight response. The others tumble after him. We immediately experience a traffic jam in the garage, two try to get in to the house and one tries to get back out. “I need it. I need it. I need it!” he squalks at them as he wades his way past them, battling upstream. Each hand holds a little white flag. Closer inspection shows that the flags are Wet Wipes as he attacks the car window with a flourish of fury. So much for tactile defensiveness or is there merely OCD gone mad?
“Oh thank you dear, that is so helpful. What a great job you're doing! I was going to do that in just a moment.”
“Das o.k. Your brain is old and mold. You are forget.” It’s the kind of back handed compliment you’d expect from a Brit.
“Oh….I…er…”
“And……..you be er… old and mold turtle.”
“Turtle? I didn’t know tortoises were forgetful? Do you mean elephant?”
“Nooo. Elephants do good remember. Turtles are be slow.” Oh dear, in more ways than one I fear.

In my defense, I should like to point out that there is a fine line between truth and accuracy.