Driving to gymnastics yesterday, The Little Nutball, apropos of nothing said, “E. [she hasn’t used “Daddy” since she was 3], after gymnastics, can we go to Home Depot so you can buy wood to make a coffin for me?”
Our Tiny Nut has been lobbying hard for her very own full-size DIY vampire coffin for months now. (And also a pet mouse.) Oh, also, if we build her a coffin, she says she’ll sleep in her own bed, ie, the coffin. (Yes, we’re still co-sleeping.)
If the question is, are future Fine Arts students born or created, the answer would be: born, born to parents too dazed and worn down to redirect their drama queen peccadilloes into more conventional directions like music-class vanity CDs or weekend preschooler art workshops.
One of my mom friends calls these the Black Nail Polish incidents, and I think it’s an apt description. Although in our family, the Death Ray Davies’ album title Midnight At The Black Nail Polish Factor seems more on the money.
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