that white lollipops taste like rats. They really do.
|Via the Mark Twain bookstore.|
B has brushed his teeth, kissed his daddy, and been tucked into bed. I am just starting to relax when he pages me:
Moooommmmmeeeeeee!!!!! Moooommmmmeeeeeee!!!!! Moooommmmmeeeeeee!!!!!
It’s like an air raid siren.
I reluctantly go into his room and ask, “Why are you yelling at me?”
B, lying indolently on his bed with his hands folded behind his head and his left foot resting on his cocked-up right knee (a-la Tom Sawyer), says, “Tuck me in Mommy.”
I look at him in disbelief, arms akimbo, “I’m sorry, what? Are you kidding me? You can’t tuck yourself in?”
He looks me straight in the eye and says, gravely, “But I just lyin’ here, Mommy!”
Oh, well then. Of course.
B turned to me this evening, over what I can’t recall, and said,
“Mommy, sometimes it just makes me cross.”
Am I a character in The Secret Garden? Where did this child come from?
Oh, wait. Me.
B injured himself this morning ( I have no idea how) and ran into my room to announce,
“Mommy! I made a hole in myself!”