The Darndest Things
Yesterday, Lulu was playing on the porch when I heard her sing, "And I have weird nasal hair.''
"Where did you hear that,'' I asked. "Sponge Bob?''
She claimed it was from a Nickelodeon commercial that lists all the presidents of the United States.
Regis, who knew the lyrics, corrected her.
"No, its weird facial hair. They were singing about Milord Filmore.''
Last week, that same commercial prompted Lulu to ask, "Was there really a president named Calvin Kool Aid?'' And later, "Who was the president that died after a month?'' (We didn't know).
She started demanding our opinions of various presidents. Did we like the man who was president four times (Franklin Roosevelt)? When she mentioned Reagan and we said we didn't like him, she asked me, "Who would you rather have for president, Reagan or a house?''
"But a house would say, 'I want to destroy the world','' she joked.
"That's kind of what Reagan was saying.''
She looked unsettled and confused.
"It's hot out and I'm tired. I'll explain tomorrow.''
Zeb was playing with his trucks this morning and I asked him where they were going.
"Costco,'' he replied.
"What are they going to buy there?''
"Do they have their Costco cards?''
I weaned Zeb when he turned two, and he's only asked for milk a few times since then, but he keeps wanting to fondle my breasts. Sometimes, he's too rough, but often it feels good. Since it's not, however, a habit I want to encourage, I feel compelled to prissily inform them that breasts are ''private.''
Today, as I was lying on the couch, he climbed on top of me and began to grope. "Can I touch ya breasts?''
"Can I step on dem?''
"Sorry, but no.''
In a way, its kind of flattering. I turned 40 in March, and as far as I know, no one else, not even Regis, wants to touch my breasts this bad.
On the other hand, no one has asked to step on them, either.