I can’t believe I said this: “Eat it, baby; don’t slap it.” At The Soda Shop in town last weekend.
Which brings me to the fact that, yes, we do call baby “baby.” Much more so than we call him by his name. We also call Lola “puppy” much more so than we call her by her name. We’re quirky like that.
Another early morning phone call from my sister on the way to preschool with my niece and nephew in tow: “Oh dear. Gracie has a pair of underwear in her hands. I just know she’s going to want to take them into preschool with her.” As you know, Gracie has a thing for bringing her brother’s underwear to preschool.
“So, what are you going to do? Take them from her and risk the fit or let her keep them?”
“Oh no, I have to take these from her.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because she took them from the dirty clothes basket NOT the clean clothes pile.”
Last Saturday, I wore my new boots all day long. Towards the end of the day, it felt like they were getting tighter and tighter on my right foot. Geez, I thought, these are heckuva lot less comfortable than I thought they’d be. Later, I took them off and my friend’s little girl with her five year old sized feet put them on.
“There’s something in here,” she said and quickly pulled her foot out. She shook the boot and out came a finger sized stuffed animal of baby’s. Not quite sure how I missed it.