The many ways in which my four-year-old is like a cat, or what you get when you write a post in ten minutes.
Henry insists on walking in front of me around the house. “I’m the leader,” he tells me, and leaps ahead, although he’s not sure where I’m going. He veers toward the living room when ha ha, I was going to the kitchen all along. This is what amuses me these days. He turns around, screeches, “Hey!” and jumps in front of me. And then stops short to explain why, athough he had requested the red Power Ranger for Christmas, we managed to purchase the wrong kind of red Power Ranger. Not paying the least bit of attention, I run directly into him and step on his foot. He cries out. I bend down to check out the damage. “Which one did I hurt?” I ask him. “Marbretta,” he says. He has named his feet. The right one is Marbretta, the left one is Plops. (Cats would probably name their paws, if they had the power of speech. You know they would. Although I’d bet they have lousy imaginations and their foot names would be Paw, Paw-Paw, Pawl, and Pawla.) The foot appears undamaged. Meanwhile, Henry is batting at my hair . “This wouldn’t happen if you’d wear shoes,” I tell him, but he’s ignoring me as he stares, frozen in wonder, at something on the ground, in doing so blocking the kitchen doorway. “It’s just a mushroom,”I say. “I must have dropped it while I was cooking. Can you pick it up for me?” He looks at me as if I had smeared myself with my own feces. “I will not pick up a mushroom,” he declares. “Charlie will eat it.” He lunges toward Charlie, undoubtedly ready to haul him mushroom-ward, but Charlie takes off, as he usually does whenever Henry comes at him. “Charlie hates mushrooms,” Henry informs me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading down to the basement to crap in a box.”
(Good enough! Quick, Alice, post it before you return to your senses!)