Our kids have lately been squirrelling themselves away in tight corners for no apparent reason. We find them in closets, wedged in between the toilet and bathtub, under their beds, etc. Evidently their father's claustrophobia got filtered out somewhere. Last night I heard what sounded like racoons rustling through a garbage can and upon investigation found two critters of a different sort in our hamper.
Go figure.
L had a "hand" in stuffing the turkey this year. (Get it? "A hand?" Ha ha ha!)
Stacy winced every time L put in another onion quarter or orange chunk inside, imagining the hord of salmonella bacteria lying in wait, ready to leap on to her daughter's arm and devour her there on the spot. L indeed ended up with a red, sore arm afterwards, but it was only because of Stacy's scouring with hot soap and water.
A few days before Thanksgiving we had a much needed storm front come through. It was merely a drizzile, but being denizens of Southern California, our kids treat the first drop of rain the way most yung uns handle the year's first snow dusting. Donned we now our most underutilized waredobe elements and went and stood in the rain, showing our collective general intelligence fails to stand up to common barnyard animals.
When Stacy was in Sweden she got a strange little device used to probe boiled potatoes to test if they are done. This morning while I was fixing breakfast for the kids, L noticed it in the drawer and commented.
"That looks like it's for a shot!" she said. "That would be a very owwy shot. I would cry a lot. N and Mommy would cry too, but you wouldn't cry cause you would be brave."
At this point she her expression changed and like a cloud passing over the sun she suddenly became quite serious and almost teary. After a moment or two of considering a shot with the potato probe she turned to me again. "Daddy, you'd protect me." She flung her arms around me and buried her face in my leg. "I love you Daddy!"
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