Listening to: Traffic, John Barleycorn Must Die
In this tiny house my kids have a tiny table about two feet tall, four tiny chairs to go around it; dad takes his meal at the counter/bar and watches the wee ones duke it out over their meals. Cocoa Crispies, apple juice, bananas, and toast with blackberry jam this morning, and this exchange (L)illy, (M)arni, (Z)eke, and yours truly (YT):
YT: Why is someone screaming?
M:Zeke-ee punched me!
YT: I've been watching the whole time and I didn't see anyone punch you...
M: Zeke-ee punched me!
YT: He didn't punch you; it must have been a ghost.
Z: A ghost!
L: Daddy, there's no ghosts in our house.
M: Not a ghost...
Z: Where ghost?
M: You're a ghost, Zeke-ee
Z: I NOT A GHOST!!!
L: You're not a ghost, you're stinky cheese.
Z: I NOT TINKY CHEE!!! I NOT!!!
YT: What are you, Zeke, if you're not?
Z: I a why-on!!!
M: Zeke-ee, you're not a why-on.
YT: Why not?
L & M (together): Zeke-ee is a 'why-not"!!!
Z: I NOT A WHY NOT!!!
And so forth... in the meantime, I fashion a cap out of tin foil and begin channeling the Tralfamadorians, hoping Montana Wildhack is free this weekend.