So we have all these children. Many, many children, so many more than just the three that we officially have. For when there is Behavior they become as a pack of ravenous wild child-beasts. And we must not kill them, for it is Forbidden in most states.
Once in a while, inexplicably and with no known cause, they become charming and say cute things. There are various laws and statutes requiring us to bore our friends and relations to death with the details, but since I do keep a handy blog I can limit much of this to an arena in which participation is largely voluntary. Ye have been warned.
This evening Elder Spawn presented bearing a Fisher-Price doctor kit and proceeded to give me a checkup, first arming me with a stuffed animal for when the shot hurts. My blood pressure was taken (“It’s at 99 degrees!”), my heart was listened to (“It went fump, fump, fump fump, FUMP”), and then my temperature was taken. Thankfully this was taken via the oral route, although it is completely unknowable where that toy thermometer has spent its time in the recent past. Ironically if I get sick anytime soon I think we all know who the culprit was.
At last it was pronounced that I was sick and also had a broken arm. Who knew! So after squeezing my arm into her kindergarten-sized brace (from when she broke her own arm last spring) and giving me a pretend injection, and a pretend lollipop, she moved on to Rhonda. Whose blood pressure turned out to be “right in between 4 and 5.”
At this point Middle Spawn came out wearing a veil and carrying a metallic pink vinyl Dora the Explorer purse. “I’m getting wed!” she announced, and so I asked how that works. What happens when you get married? “Well,” she said, “you go to the place where you are gonna get married. And the boy you’re going to married meets you there. And then in a matter of weeks you get a baby in your tummy.” (She was very specific about this: in a matter of weeks.) And then what happens? “And then it hatches!”