Listening to: Pink Floyd, Animals
School's still out, for what it's worth. January weather means the wee ones stay inside and play games like dragging food out of the fridge and line every item up on the floor like its part of a signal to ancient astronauts. Who are they calling?
I shouldn't have given them a telescope for Christmas, not just because they fight over who gets to peer through the eyepiece but, I suspect, they're scoping out what civilization will answer their food symbols, will land here, and will probe my ass with alien speculae and other devices of torture. After all, my children have shown a willingness to torment me with their willingness to rim my kitchen with olives, calling down sadistic alien perverts with symbols drawn with olives is not outside their purview, it seems.
The girls have been getting a chapter-per-night reading of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, despite their nefarious plan to have me abducted by aliens. They seem to be enjoying the story but I suspect they're awaiting The White Witch to snag me into anothe dimension and dispense of me summarilly.
Their loss, I think. CS Lewis's prose is simplistic enough and certainly entertaining (they seem to be involved); incredible stuff. Still, I can't help but think that today's play with the refrigerator was nothing less than some desperate call to have me hauled away to a distant galaxy and reformed into decent dad.
In the spirit of CS Lewis, God bless em' if they succeed.