The other day we made one of those super stock-up trips to the supermarket, you know the kind where you need just about everything. With the cart full to overflowing, I took Samson to get the car while Vicki and Jane hung back to finish checking out and planned to meet us in the designated loading zone.
Unsurprisingly, there was a minivan that looked like ours already in the zone. I guess Jane thought Samson and I were in it, however, because when it pulled away, she burst into tears and cried out: "NO! ME! BEEP! BEEP! NOO! MEE! BEEP! BEEP!"
Of course she was both confused and relieved when Sam and I pulled up a moment later. But the tears in her eyes (much less the story, when I heard it) were enough to break my heart.
Sweet Jane is aware of way more than we give her credit for.
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About Me
- dada
- Call me dada. This has, in the few months since my son started "talking," become my name. I'm sure (at least I hope) it will eventually morph into something less early 20th century art movementy --- but I am marked forever as dada. And this is a good thing. I have no real advice to offer, other than always carry Cheerios and extra onesies, and I don't really have a lot of 'wacky' adventures to regale you with. Truth be told, this is as much for me as it is for you. So, uh, thanks for stopping by. I hope it's at least an interesting time-killer. And if not, consider this an ironic exercise in skewering the bourgeouis notions of 21st century American parenthood by deconstructing the materialist ethos that has turned childhood into a demographic and rendered adults simultaneous enablers and slaves. Or something.
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