The Zoo Crew
A couple of weeks ago, Zelda and Lovett left town on separate retreats, leaving Dora and me with a Saturday to ourselves.
I let her sleep late and when she awoke I asked her what she wanted to do.
Let's go to the zoo and eat a ice cream! she quickly responded.
It was a nice, crisp day for walking through the zoo. We fed the fish and waved to the zebras and marveled at the giraffes; we laughed at the camel and smelled the bison and mourned with Mona the elephant, who's now all alone. We rode the train and the carousel, got mad because the lorikeet exhibit was closed and we couldn't feed them, and watched the flamingos wade in the pond.
We went to McDonald's for cardboard sandwiches and the playground, where I read a novel and Dora made a friend.
At home, we worked in the woods out back, cutting a hurricane-downed tree and hunting our property markers. After dark, Dora reminded me that we forgot to get an ice cream at the zoo.
So we had my favorite, vanilla ice cream covered in honey, for supper.
Dora got her bath, we snuggled awhile in my chair before I carried her airplane-style to her bed, where she fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.
It was a great day of exploration and conversation with my eloquent four-year-old. I answered a thousand questions and we talked about all kinds of things. She is so verbally expressive, thanks in part to her parents who talked to her in complete sentences since she was born and her big brother, who is pretty expressive himself, for the most part.
Lately, though, when they are together, a faunal cacophony breaks out, the likes of which Dr. Seuss, Jane Goodall, and Marlin Perkins could only dream. One merely looks at the other and cues a chorus of hoots, grunts, wheezes, snorts, whinnies, barks, tweets, chirps, and smacks that makes me fear a visit from the Department of the Interior to check my exotic animal permit.
I can't explain these sub-linguistic exchanges; Zelda thinks they've developed some sort of twin-like language, though they are eight years apart in age. All I know is that it flusters the crap out of me, especially in the car, but most especially when I catch them being articulate about something and I remember the latest Animal Symphony in Barf.
Next morning, we picked Lovett up and he told us about his weekend on the way to my truck: who he hung out with, how many girls were there, why he didn't bathe for two days, how the food was, etc. Dora shared part of our weekend with him as I thought how good it was to have three-quarters of my family together again.
We climbed into the front seat, buckled our belts, and I cranked the motor and started backing away.
Dora looked at Lovett. Lovett looked at Dora. Honk! Whee! Snort! Pthththt! Smack! Huuummm! Chortle! Haw! Zhee! Woo! Plink! Doing! Narf!
The zoo crew - reunited.
I let her sleep late and when she awoke I asked her what she wanted to do.
Let's go to the zoo and eat a ice cream! she quickly responded.
It was a nice, crisp day for walking through the zoo. We fed the fish and waved to the zebras and marveled at the giraffes; we laughed at the camel and smelled the bison and mourned with Mona the elephant, who's now all alone. We rode the train and the carousel, got mad because the lorikeet exhibit was closed and we couldn't feed them, and watched the flamingos wade in the pond.
We went to McDonald's for cardboard sandwiches and the playground, where I read a novel and Dora made a friend.
At home, we worked in the woods out back, cutting a hurricane-downed tree and hunting our property markers. After dark, Dora reminded me that we forgot to get an ice cream at the zoo.
So we had my favorite, vanilla ice cream covered in honey, for supper.
Dora got her bath, we snuggled awhile in my chair before I carried her airplane-style to her bed, where she fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.
It was a great day of exploration and conversation with my eloquent four-year-old. I answered a thousand questions and we talked about all kinds of things. She is so verbally expressive, thanks in part to her parents who talked to her in complete sentences since she was born and her big brother, who is pretty expressive himself, for the most part.
Lately, though, when they are together, a faunal cacophony breaks out, the likes of which Dr. Seuss, Jane Goodall, and Marlin Perkins could only dream. One merely looks at the other and cues a chorus of hoots, grunts, wheezes, snorts, whinnies, barks, tweets, chirps, and smacks that makes me fear a visit from the Department of the Interior to check my exotic animal permit.
I can't explain these sub-linguistic exchanges; Zelda thinks they've developed some sort of twin-like language, though they are eight years apart in age. All I know is that it flusters the crap out of me, especially in the car, but most especially when I catch them being articulate about something and I remember the latest Animal Symphony in Barf.
Next morning, we picked Lovett up and he told us about his weekend on the way to my truck: who he hung out with, how many girls were there, why he didn't bathe for two days, how the food was, etc. Dora shared part of our weekend with him as I thought how good it was to have three-quarters of my family together again.
We climbed into the front seat, buckled our belts, and I cranked the motor and started backing away.
Dora looked at Lovett. Lovett looked at Dora. Honk! Whee! Snort! Pthththt! Smack! Huuummm! Chortle! Haw! Zhee! Woo! Plink! Doing! Narf!
The zoo crew - reunited.
posted by Chris @ 6:16 PM
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