Sunny’s Tiny Place:
We’re all about the Dinosaur Train at our house,* and lately Sunny had been pretending she’s Tiny Pteranodon,** who, when she gets upset or there are predators about, hides in her “Tiny Place.”
Sunny decided she wanted a tiny place of her very own to hide from
her big sister predators, too. So she built this Monday and has been spending most of her waking moments in it every since:
You can’t see it, but she has a a baby blanket, a huge stuffed sheep, a picture book, and a cereal bowlful of grapes in there.
It all fits because she’s so tiny. Get it?
The Odds are Good, But the Goods are Odd . . .
A while back, Ali Binazir, author and Harvard man, attended a talk in which the speaker mentioned that scientists believe the odds of a specific individual being born as that specific individual to be one in 400 trillion (4×1014).
That number makes the national debt of the US look like pocket change. From my pockets.
Mr. Binazir—who is clearly not at Harvard because a rich relative bribed the Governing Board***—streamlined the math in one hilarious and thought-provoking blog post, and someone made a chart from it (click to enlarge):
So . . . Should we buy lottery tickets, or did we use up all my luck just getting here?
(Thanks to Cha Cha for the chart!)
Mommy’s Tiny Place
I told Sunny that I wished I had a tiny place.
“You do!” she said, and pointed.
This, according to the resident expert, is my tiny place:
Please note that it is not safe from predators. Or distractions. Or random writing instruments. Or anything, really.
My ideal tiny place looks more like this:
Or this (the image isn’t tiny, but the place is):
But I guess I’ll settle for this—because it’s bigger on the inside. I hope:
What’s your tiny place like?
*I can’t begin to tell you how high I have to crank my suspension of disbelief for this show. I realize I’m not the targeted demographic, but if you decide to try this out, please for the sake of your sanity and your kids’ enjoyment, don’t start asking any questions about the train or the laying of the track or opposable thumbs or the flippin’ Time Tunnels, or what all those carnivores are probably doing off-screen. Just let it all wash over you like an anachronistic breeze and enjoy the songs.
**I get to be Mrs. Pteranondon, which is good, because I can’t pronounce Gigonotosaurus to The Sunny’s satisfaction.
***Not that I’m implying that the Governing Board of Harvard can be bribed—or at least not until I can’t get my brilliant offspring accepted any other way . . . though hypothetically, this would entail a considerable upgrade to my pockets.