Rainy Day Ramble

Beatrix and her little friend, E, hunker down like little hedgehogs under the table by my feet. I can hear them whispering and now Bea's singing a little snippet of Baby Beluga, to which Ethan is singing a reply: Baby Beluga, POOP! Bea snaps, YUCK! as if she herself does not engage in the potty humor rather frequently. My friend T and I used to reflect that being stand-up comedians for a bunch of two and three-year olds would be facile--we'd just stand up there and yell, PEE PEE! POOP! etc. (just add any bodily function that's mildly yucky at times). We'd pack a full house, no doubt.

For older kids we'd change our routine slightly, adjusting to their cognitive levels by encasing the potty humor in story and adding various unlikely tragedies, such as arms, legs, entire heads falling off or being consumed by wild animals. Insert slightly more sophisticated language, a couple of sexual innuendos and a few pop culture references, and we'd engage the older folks in the audience as well. (You've got. . .SNL!) T and I have it all figured out, and when we quit our various day/night jobs, we'll make a fortune on the comedic stage.

Currently my mother is sleeping off an all-nighter on the plane from Seattle (personal party consisted of a glass of wine followed by sleeping all night in a snug economy seat). We picked her up yesterday morning and wined and dined her; the children swarmed her and peppered her with their stories and she fell asleep at eleven in our living room chair. Of course, right now, it's only 6:30 her time.

Bea just pointed to me and reminded E, "That's Uncle Kim!" To her, it's just a matter of having a peanut or a bagina, and I thought she'd figured out which one her mother had. I think it's just a matter of slipped semantics. We can't expect consistent accuracy from anyone in monster footie-jammies with a slightly runny nose.

Spring rain today; rather dreary but good for earthworms waking from their snarled sleep. Good day for ducks and extra cups of tea and a good ramble with wellies, if one had wellies. How I long to be British and storybooky and beautiful and practical with my bright wellingtons and cups of tea sitting just so in saucers after the rather soggy but romantic country ramble.

Instead I am American and slightly unkempt, inside without bright boots, but happy all the same with my mug of tea. And here I end my increasingly incoherent wandering. Hope the weather is lovely where you are.