The coordinator of the church Christmas Pageant e-mailed the cast list this morning. Janie is a shepherd, which is a pretty good gig for someone who was the donkey last year* . . . except Sunny is the sheep.
This was done on purpose—last year’s coordinator wanted Sunny to walk down the aisle with Zoe, another curly blonde child, in matching angel costumes. Sunny declined, at the top of her voice, to be haloed, robed, or go anywhere near Zoe, who is a sweet kid but tends to ignore the personal space of smaller children until they fall over.
So it was hoped that being close to her sister this year would make Sunny more comfortable. It seems to have worked—Sunny is very excited about being Janie’s sheep. As her mother, though, I can’t help but think that my curly-headed little lamb is probably going to keep her shepherd on her toes . . .
I’ve been humming the Hallelujah Chorus all day. I could say it’s because I finally finished that stinkin’ chapter of my WIP and sent it off to First Reader last night—and this afternoon, she sent it back with a lot of lovely comments** that had me breathing a sigh of relief.
But really, it’s because my friend the Earworm King suggested that this might be a good way for librarians to bring a little holiday music into the workplace:
Since the library has always been my haven against the relentless, repetitive cheer that is Winter Holiday Music™, I’m gonna pass, thanks. But if we ever have a talent show, I’m there with the signs!
I just tucked Sunny into bed. There’s nothing like a snuggle-hug from a warm, recently-bathed and shampooed kid in fleece footie jammies.
I said, “You smell really good.”
She said, “Like salad?”
I blinked. ” Salad? you think salad smells good?” I’ve never thought about salad smelling like anything much, except maybe green. She didn’t smell green—her soap-paint is violently strawberry and purple grape, and her shampoo is orange cremesicle.
She nodded. “I like salad.”
This is patently untrue. She likes the idea of salad, since it’s a grown up food and she is determined to be a Big Girl. But carrots and cucumbers are as far as she’s been willing to go, and even then you have to match her bite for bite in a crunch contest. “You like salad? Are you sure?”
So I gave up and sang a song, for which she forgave me, kissed her, kissed her bear, cocooned her in her quilt and afghan and left. Then I turned around and came back. “What kind of salad?”
Who knew a half-asleep three-year old could make the same tsk sound as her older sister? “Fruit salad, Mommy.”
I’m not bright. But I mean well.
I have an hour and ten minutes left to make the writing goal part of my pre-resolutions today.
I think the extra chapter of Clementine with Janie and the extra snuggle with the fruit salad was well worth the time—but now it’s a wastin’.
*And who stole the show with her single line, which she projected at exactly the wrong time to great comedic effect:
Zoe, around her favorite thumb: “Feaw not! For I bing you glad tide-lings of gweat joy!”
**And, yes, a few that made my slap my forehead and wonder why I cling to the notion that English is my native tongue. And why I still try to have my characters handle guns when it has been made very clear to me that I have some kind of natural anti-talent in this area . . . But she always phrases things in a way that never makes me wonder why I’m still writing. That, my friends, is why she’s First Reader and I’m damned lucky.