I may have received the sweetest present I’ll ever receive yesterday. It came in a shiny gold envelope from Wales. Inside were these:
Tiny leetle running shoes! With rainbow roving smokin’ from the heels! And a wee Italian flag to sew to something, probably my water bottle bag. I can’t even tell you how happy these made me. Can you imagine? Thinking of these, while I’m running? I could probably run all the way to Wales, just thinking of these. Well, there’s all that water in the way. Perhaps a cruise ship, then. I could run the track between meals.
I actually wondered for a few minutes, where would one GET such a perfect gift? Then I realized that Daisy-Winifred put the baby shoes together with the roving. Duh. And it made it even better. Sigh. I LOVE these.
Speaking of babies, can I tell you real quick-like why I don’t have one? I was writing to Maggi earlier about this week’s trauma. You see, a while back, I decided Maggi’s Wee C needed the Frances books. You know, Bread and Jam for Frances, Best Friends for Frances…. A highlight of my trip was knowing that I would get to read them to her. She climbed up in my lap one night, and we read several of them, ending with Bedtime for Frances. There’s a scene in which Frances watches the crack up above her head, and in her insomnia-induced terror, imagines all sorts of creepy-crawly things wriggling out of the crack. Of course, she later realizes that nothing could fit through the crack, but that’s not what stuck with Wee C. She woke screaming several nights later, convinced cracks had terrible things in them.
I traumatized a three-year old.
Maggi said they worked it out, and she’s not scared anymore, and these things happen with three-year olds, but I KNOW it’ll come out in her therapy in thirty years.
And something even worse happened this week. My little two-year old love came over. Here Winter is with Adah (can you see her tongue sticking out?).
And with his fairy godmother:
He loves him some Adah. And Adah’s a patient cat, wanting nothing but to be touched, even if it’s by a two-year old who was built as a runner. They ran and played all over the apartment, and it was wonderful to watch. Then she slapped him in the face. True, he had pulled her tail, but I was horrified. My cat! Attacking a baby! I swept her up and locked her away in my bedroom (where Digit was already, being a rather bitey sort of fellow around small people). I apologized like crazy. I was a bad, bad cat mom.
And then? We were playing on the couch? You know, that “I’m going to bite your hand, look out, here I come….” *play bite, play bite* Then I looked away and closed my mouth, just as he stuck in his fingers.
I bit Winter! There were tears. He cried, too. I told Monica to take him home, to get him out of the bad lady’s house where cats slap and people bite.
It was awful. In a funny, pathetic, weak “har har har” kind of way. It’ll be funnier next week. Maybe. I may need therapy myself.
But hey, can I tell you? Drumroll, please.
Off for the weekend, see you Monday!
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