“Mommy, do that kind of flower that roars?” Quinn asks, making claw-hands up by his face and actually roaring the word “roar”.
(side note: While very articulate, Quinn has yet to fully grasp proper grammer and insists on the universal use of “do” for what, how, who, where — pretty much everything but “why” which he wholly grasps in all it’s unrelenting power.)

I finish my sip of coffee and reply, “What?”

“You know, that flower that ROOOOAAAAARRRRRS”, he answers.

“A flower that roars?” I ask while racking the back of my head for some movie or show he might have seen with a roaring flower. One comes to mind with talking flowers, but do they roar? And no matter anyway, because I’m pretty sure Quinn has yet to witness the drug trip that is “Alice in Wonderland”. “There’s no flower that roars,” I say confidently.

Quinn thinks for a second, then replies, “That flower you can blow” and he mimes the act of holding and blowing a flower.

Lightbulb illuminating over my head, “Ah, you mean a DandeLION.”

Quinn is pleased.