Chicken Little, three-going-on-four, has learned a new word. She’s been working hard to insert it in as many sentences as possible.
I need to go to bed right now, dammit.
Where is my ducky blanket, dammit?
Dammit, I hate oatmeal.
Dammit, I want to catch a butterfly!
Meanwhile, Chicken Noodle, five-going-on-six, is writing her own songs. She coins lyrics and a tune in her head before requiring us, her family and built-in fan-base, to sit raptly while she sings. She uses a red rake as a guitar. Occasionally, like so many rock stars, she performs half-naked.
Her lyrics, like her, are dark. Except for when they are inspiring.
We love the sun/the sun/the sun/but not the ocean/because sometimes you bonk your head/and get ate-en by a shark.
Wouldn’t it be great/if we had a cat cat cat/who didn’t bite us/and make us bleed bleed bleed/when we picked him up?
And we know in our hearts we are helpful and kind/sometimes we just make mistakes!
We can find the secrets in our minds/we can find the secrets in the stars/we can do it/we can!
I don’t know why anyone thinks they need amusement parks, or Wii, or heroin. Children are the world’s best entertainment.
For all the thematic tension I managed to milk from my looming 40th birthday in the course of this blog, as it actually loomed large, I barely mentioned it.
(Can anyone say denial?)
Well, anyway, it was yesterday.
Tra la la!
As for how it feels and all of that, I will only say, you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? You may ask yourself, am I right or am I wrong? You may ask yourself, how do I work this? And the days go by…
Me: Today, we listen to 80s music.
Chicken Little: What is that?
Chicken Noodle: I don’t know.