Borders, Books and Musics

Today I woke up after a stinky dream. As the dream faded all I could recall was a sense of something precious being taken from me and still dreary eyed and sleepy I fought back against Dadda as he forced me to get a clean butt. Even my Babba was not consolation enough for my furious fit of fear. In exasperation and perhaps clarity Dadda gladly plopped me back in my crib until I regained composure. Sure enough after five minutes of screaming I gained enough consciousness to realize I was awake and there was a cold Babba in my crib with me. Ah the beauty of a morning nap.

This past weekend when I woke up from a nap, late in the afternoon, we went outside to play. For some reason Dadda's idea of playing was putting colored lights on the roof while Mamma and Bubba's chased me around the yard and kept me out of the street. Now I know I'm not supposed to go in the street. We yell a lot in this family. We yell to be heard, we yell for excitement, we yell to break tension and because sometimes it's just too darn quiet. But you know when a yell serves a serious purpose and whenever I try to go into the street I get one of those yells and I hang my head low and come back from the glorious promise of freedom and blackened asphalt.

That's when I got to thinking about boundaries. We've got gates on the stairs, both up and down, curiously confounding covers on the doorknobs and even the doggie door is taped shut, although they recently had to upgrade from packing tape to ducky tape since I deftly demonstrated dastardly dexterity and escape artistry. In other words, walls can't hold me! Donkey Kong's got nothing on me! But. . .I feel safe, I guess. They've recently tied the fridge door shut with some stretchy cord, which gives me the illusion of opening, but then slams shut with barely a glimpse of the chilled treats.

They also put up a regiment of shoulders (Bubba's or Mamma's) whenever the oven door is open, warning me about the hotness. This is one of my new words, "haaa." Now allow me to explain, there are two kinds of "haaa" there's the "haaa" for food that hurts when I grab it and then there's the "haaa" when I put something in my mouth that makes my tongue hurt, like Dadda's weird pickles he doesn't let me eat.  Dadda calls that other "haaa" pica or spicy. I called it forbidden deliciousness.

 

 

 

Haaa!

A few new books have been added to my bookshelf. Really scary stuff about people feeding babies to barn animals at night, snow monsters in top hats and some drunken red-nosed reindeer named Adolph or something, oh and my friend Sandra Klause. This guy is a celebrity, all my favorite shows are about him and these other scary things and don't get me started on the music. This girl named Carol apparently is a famous songwriter because lately all we've listened to are different versions of the same songs over and over again. All this weirdness must serve a greater purpose because everyone seems happier and and looking forward to crissmuss vacation. I, however, am nervous about the upset in my routine. Perhaps a promised potato head toy will soothe my frustration, when's that getting here?

Today I am haaa spicy!