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Utopian Turtletop. Monsieur Croche's Bête Noire. Contact: turtletop [at] hotmail [dot] com
Saturday, November 13, 2004
UNPLUMBED DEPTHS
This evening, getting the coming-on-2-year-old ready for bed, I sang “Hey Diddle Diddle” to him, a song we both like. The cat and the fiddle and the cow and the moon always make him smile, but tonight, when the dish ran away with the spoon, he made the saddest face in the world and said, “Back?” His face got sadder and sadder as he repeated “Back?”, until finally a tear formed in his eye, and then he was sobbing, tears flying outward from his eyes like in cartoons. “Back!” I had to reassure him that the dish and the spoon came back, because they love to eat O’s with him in the morning. He cheered up before too long.
This evening, getting the coming-on-2-year-old ready for bed, I sang “Hey Diddle Diddle” to him, a song we both like. The cat and the fiddle and the cow and the moon always make him smile, but tonight, when the dish ran away with the spoon, he made the saddest face in the world and said, “Back?” His face got sadder and sadder as he repeated “Back?”, until finally a tear formed in his eye, and then he was sobbing, tears flying outward from his eyes like in cartoons. “Back!” I had to reassure him that the dish and the spoon came back, because they love to eat O’s with him in the morning. He cheered up before too long.
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