My daughter is, as my grandmother would say, “Ornerier than a popcorn fart.” I don’t know what that means, but she said it and it sounds pretty wild. Ornery sucks to spell, by the way. It took me five minutes to figure that out and I was my high school’s co-valedictorian. That last word took a while too, but that’s Dewar’s fault, not my brain.
Friday night she was fighting sleep like I fight sobriety. HARD. I went to get more milk, when the cat, that weird animal that lives in my house and murders things every five minutes, ran like hell’s fire down the hall. That means one thing. Dingleberry. When the long haired cat gets a dingle, it’s crazy time. I didn’t think about it, but when I came up I saw my sweet girl standing over something, talking up a storm.
“It’s OK. Accidents happen.” There was a lovely cat turd with a piece of toilet paper the size of your thumbnail next to it. “It’s OK. Mazy has a stinker on her butt. It’s OK.” What in the blazes? “I clean it, it’s OK. Accidents happen.” My sweet little sleepless hellion/angel was trying to clean the dingleberry, aka the “stinker on her butt.” I now am terrified if my kid ever tells me she made a stinker. God knows the magic that will happen when she starts repeating more words from mom and dad into her own little word factory.