We went to JJ’s today, and for the most part, everyone did amazingly well. Neko and Shep actually rode in that plastic car in the front of the cart without killing each other. I have a theory that those carts were clearly designed by someone who has no children, because if they did, it would be about twice as wide with a giant partition something like the Great Wall of China between the two steering wheels.
Anyway, everyone was doing well, even Ellery, who drooled about a quart from beginning to end of the trip, but was otherwise downright charming, if not a little pruney. But right at the end Neko started to lose it. Tom had forgotten oatmeal, so he took Neko with him to keep her occupied. When they met us at the checkout, Neko could barely contain her excitement as she showed me this polaroid of she and Tony the Tiger. We don’t eat Frosted Flakes, but somehow she knows who he is and is really excited to see him in person.
Now, she’s got some suspicions that perhaps this isn’t a real six-foot tall live tiger in the grocery store. She’s begun talking about how this is a costume and that there’s a person in there. But today it was like she finally got the proof to crack the case. Later, at home, she was examining her polaroid when she suddenly started pointing at the picture and screaming, “Skin! SKIN!”
Tom and I jumped about a foot in the air and then came to look at what got her so excited. “Look, right there. You can see the person in the costume. His SKIN.” And there, right at his wrist, his furry orange glove and sleeve had created a gap where, sure enough, you can see skin.
I should add that this week she also dug up this ancient Keith Haring book about babies with lots of cute illustrations, but it also includes one illustration where the baby is coming out of the mother’s nether-regions, prompting the inevitable, “What is this drawing all about and where do babies come from?” Tom changed the subject and I confiscated the book, and we managed to evade that one.
But seriously, this whole figuring out how the real world works? For the birds.
Comments
One response to “Don’t even ask about Santa Claus”
I was holding Jake [oldest newphew] on my hip at a Christmas party when he was about 4. He had already seen Santa at Harrods in London. You know, real beard, beautiful red velvet suit, with a gen-u-ine leather belt that I’d probably die for, flushed cheeks not caused by acute alcoholism; like the creme de la creme of Santas.
In walks Meth Santa. Skinny, mottled suit, fake beard askew…you know. He looks at me and says “Is that Santa?” Like a dummy, I said “Yes!”
He gave me a look like he would never trust a word out of my mouth again. I swear that was the beginning of the end.