Dear Laney,
When I was four, I swore up and down to my mother and Aunt Robyn that I could roller skate. To hear me tell it, I was Peggy Fleming on eight wheels. Peg Peg and Robyn paid the admission and skate rental fees to watch me splat my butt up and down the length of Looney's Skating Rink. That is to say: I am no stranger to exaggerating one's abilities.
Your dad drove you to school this morning, and on the way, you told him you could see Tracy's house from the interstate. Your dad said, "You can't see it from here, pumpkin," and you assured him, "I can see it if I use my giraffe neck."
This afternoon, I intended to take you to the park, but when we got there, we discovered that it was covered with tons of snow, and we couldn't even hike out to the slide. I told you I was sorry and we'd have to try another time, and then you countered with, "I can make it caliente." How handy a skill that would be, if you weren't just confusing yourself with Dora.
You and Cedar went sledding outside her house last weekend:
As we finished our stack of bedtime stories tonight, and I was kissing you good-night, we had this conversation:
Mom: I'm sorry the park didn't work out today. Maybe we'll try a different park tomorrow.
Laney: Yeah.
Mom: Maybe we'll go to the one by Cedar's house. You like playing with Cedar, don't you?
Laney: She's my best friend (Awww...). We can hold hands (True!). We can go sledding togedder (True!). We can go on da swings (True!) We can do the samba (Lie! Stolen from this morning's "Diego"!)
On the one hand, it's possible that you and Cedar have been holding covert meetings to drink sangria and crank the Herb Alpert 45s. But more probably, your mouth is writing checks that your Latin dance abilities can't cash. Either way, congratulations on grasping the concept of self-promotion; you're two years ahead of schedule.
Love,
Mom
No comments:
Post a Comment