. . . and the house is less of a mess than it was, which is saying something.
I spent part of the morning playing Monster High dolls with Sunny, who was up far too early for a Mommy who was up later than she should have been the night before, enjoying a glass (or so) of Crystal Head vodka* she’d received as a gift.** No hangover—thanks in part to Lisa H.—just the sleepies and avoid-houseworkies.
But the dishes are now done, the detritus of Christmas cheer is in the recycling bin, and the remains of the turkey carcass is simmering on the stove for stock.
While I was dealing with said carcass, Janie read me imagination prompts from her new favorite thing, Chat Pack™ for kids, which is a small box full of questions like, If you were given 5,000 ping-pong balls, what would you do with them?
This was the first one out of the pack and has prompted Janie to work ping-pong into every single one of her answers ever since, including the one about what kind of sandwich she would make if she could put anything at all between the two slices of bread.***
One of these questions was Of all the words you know, which word is your favorite to use?
I thought about it. “Onomatopoeia It’s fun to say and I like the meaning. What’s yours?” I ask, prepping an eye-roll for yet another ping-pong reference.
“Inuit.”
“Really?” I stopped what I was doing. She’s been studying Native American tribes in school, but I thought her report was on the Lakota Sioux. “Why?”
“It flows off your tongue. Try it. Inuit, Inuit.”
“Inuit, Inuit, Inuit. You’re right it does.”
So we did an impromptu Inuit sing that morphed into “The Lion Sleeps Tonight (with Ping-Pong Balls).”
Good gift, Chat Pack™.
And not a bad way of spending the day after Christmas.
How did you spend today? And what’s your favorite word?
______________________________
*Buy for the bottle, stay for the contents. I’m not much of a drinker, but this is good stuff.
**Note to self: hide laptop before imbibing. You’re on Twitter now, you idiot. And you aren’t a poet.
***Smoked turkey and ping-pong balls, with Colby Jack on oatnut bread. My daughter may be a genetic goofball who will work a punchline to death, but she’s got very specific tastes.
Earful of Cider 