Naming Things

At nap time today, I was reading Bea a book by Sandra Boynton where the speaker introduces all his pets--they're all named Bob, except for his turtle, who has a long, fancy name in curly script. Elspeth, who was gathering up her books on my bed, overheard me singing the book out loud and swaggered into Bea's room, singing her own version of the text:

"I've got an eyeball named Bob, and a head named Bob, and a shirt named Bob, and a dirty sock named Bob!" Bea broke into giggles and Elspeth, fueled by the approval, continued throughout Bea's room, picking items up and naming them all Bob, shaking her hips and popping her eyeballs in mock astonishment for effect.

And then, right before I put Bea in bed, Elspeth ran down the hallway, calling, "Who wants sanitizer for breakfast?"

I love this craziness, this sense of humor of hers based in total randomness. The other day she threw up her hands and said, "Oh, my Clara! I mean, it's impossible!" Absolute nonsense. And to me, probably because I'm her adoring mother but also because I get the biggest kick out of misnamed things, misplaced words, strange, erratic shouts, and things that go "Kablam! Piddle! Pop!" in the midst of a chaotic room--I think it shows the flashes of brilliance that I want to wrap up in several scarves made of macaroni and push, by their bumpy shoulders, into my stories and poems and conversations. Like a prince who turns into a frog. Or a witch who lives in a house made of candy. Or something brand new, like a dirty sock named Bob.