Why she should feel the need to whisper anything while we were alone in her room with the rest of the house awake, I couldn’t guess – but then, you don’t argue with those who rule by divine right, and so I dutifully leaned down so the cute, blond, 8-yr-old Reigning Queen of Pink could whisper in my ear: “Sweet titty-fuckin’ Jesus, I’m tired!”
Pimp my saddle!
Kids these days, I tell ya.
Monday. It sucked.
This past weekend I took the three lunatic children to The House in the Woods. This is, of course, a mythic destination rooted firmly in fairly tales and folklore, and as such includes the requisite babbling creek, forbidding mountain, impenetrable forest, and small host of woodland creatures. There is wood that will not split itself, hikes that do not hike themselves, and fires that won’t et cetera. There is, of course, no television. It’s a place where a kid can be a kid, as long as said kid remembers the way most kids ended up in the majority of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.