After our yard sale Saturday, my daughter found the jar where we kept the loose change, rifling through it, purging it of any “excess” she felt needed liberating. She marched triumphantly inside, her baby pink purse jingling, as she took a place at our table and sat down.
“Daddy? Wook at all da monies I have!”
Baby Sister sprawled all her change onto the table, smoothing it between her teeny fingers, boasting about how many she
“Wow, baby, that’s a lot of money!” My husband remarked, in his soft, daddy tone.
“Yeah,” she began, “Now I have enough to run away.”
“What!?” My husband’s voice level went up a few octaves as he stumbled in his response. “What… do you mean run away?”
“I going to da carnival, daddy. I running away. My brothers are too smelly.”
My husband’s laugh came deep from his belly, practically making him choke as he laughed, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. They always fart and burp, and they’re soooooo smelly, so I running away. You can come if you want!” She said, eyeing his laughter suspiciously while fumbling with a quarter.
“I can, huh?”
He tried to bite his lip to keep from laughing harder. Tears began forming in the corners of his eyes as he motioned for me to pay attention.
“Yup! And mommy, and Baby Dude, and sisters can come, but not them. They’re too smelly. And gross. And smelly.”
(Note: She did in fact, not run away, of course. She is still with us, attached to her father’s hip as usual, but we did let her smelly older brothers know they are mega-funky and to keep their bodily functions to themselves and/or the confines of an enclosed bathroom, or they’re going to wake up to a cork in their buttholes. Ahem.)
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