Baby Hugh is so sweet. He just sucked his hands until he choked himself. Five times. Then let out a belch. Then a fart. Then a big sigh and resumed choking himself; each time, making a face like, “what the heck is happening?”
My cousin’s daughter, who is 2, picked up a coffee mug with a painting on the side and asked, “Is this Picasso?” Her grandfather is reading her The Canterbury Tales, and when she goes to his house, she says, “please read me the poetry, Papa.”
I tried to recite a poem to Hugh and he gave me his choking-on-his-hands, “what the heck” look. Then I switched gears and said:
Nana nana boo boo
Stick your head in doo doo
And he fell out in hysterical laughter. Giggles, high-pitched squeals, that prompted a wild repeating of the rhyme, followed by every other non-edifying phrase I could think of: poo poo, stink bomb, buggar, fart, bum!
Laughy, laughy, laughy, laughy.
So one more time, just to be fair, I tried the opening phrase from The Canterbury Tales recalled from my English major days. And all the sunshine drained out his face, and he started to cry.
At least, I told my sister, we won’t have to save for college.