"Choo choo traaaaaa," he says. It means both train and track. And he lets his voice trail off to nothing. "Choo choo traaaaaaaaaa?"
He points to the attic door--it's a full sized door on our second floor, between our two staircases. When you open it, there are stairs. This is the sort of thing I would have found absolutely amazing when I was a kid, and it's the door to my girls' room. It's their everyday trip to play and go to bed. Open the door, walk up the steps that are part of your room.
"Up duh doh? Choo choo traaaaaaaa?"
I open the door. We've set up a wooden train set upstairs so he can play with the girls when they're up there, but not get into their stuff and bug them.
He steps onto the first step and turns around. "Doh," he nods at me. He grasps the doorknob and pulls the door shut behind him--it doesn't catch, like many of the doors in my house, and we've never bothered to sand down the edge that wedges before the latch can click. Just a wood vs. wood conflict noise, and the door is shut enough for him to feel like he's in his own spot.
"Choo choo traaaa," I hear him tell himself. And his footsteps on the stairs.