No.

No.

Okay, okay.

But just one horse.

Well, there’s your problem right there…

You’ve got a swede stuck in the mechanism.

My progeny has generated her first crayon-based pre-impressionistic “birthday card” for my father. Even now, her rendition of, uh, “kangaroos on the savannah” (or was it “we take a walk in the park”? “ice cream”?) is gracing the ancestral refrigerator.

[sadly, no, I didn't get a photo...]

Little girl, did you really think you could win our little battle of wills at quiet time?

Not only can I get you to take a nap …

… you won’t even have time to crawl into your bed.

(hooray for long walks!)

Hey, keep your hands to yourself!

After a wet drive over the pass, the weather obliged with lovely hotness for two days, and enough sand flies to go around.

Besides lots of scampering in the surf, we enjoyed the Pororari River track.

Predictably, the weather worsened as we approach home, but ’twas nice to get out of the house for a bit.

Cuz nothing lasts forever, even warm December rain.

Up to this point my child has been raised solely on a diet of organic free-range beeswax and wagyu beef sliders. Schooled solely in the works of Merritt, Brock, and Darnielle. Foisted off onto only the brainiest of children’s television.

And yet, today we returned from the library with a book titled Monkey with a Tool Belt and the Noisy Problem (sequel to the Pulitzer and Man Booker prize winning Monkey with a Tool Belt).

What is this bubble-headed pablum? Where is the weighty, serious, issues-laden children’s literature for the Tiger Mother and Lemur Father to depress upon their offspring?

Dare I say it, this is a perfectly respectably, perfectly disposable kids book. Fun to read the first eleventy-dozen times, bright, positive and inoffensive. There those times when even the good Dr gets a bit preachy. And you get to say “Chico Bon Bon” (the protagonist’s name, of course). What more do you need?

Ruminating over this photo, wondering what sort of pithy special sauce could spice up this cold pavlova, I was suddenly reminded of that olde saw from my youth, (sic) “wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care,” a phrase I have actually heard coming from my daughter’s mouth.

Of all of the parental responsibilities, I’d never fully appreciated my role in filling my child with the archaic hipster witticisms from my youth. I have needed a new hobby… Perhaps I can also infuse her with a rabid fascination with bad-idea fashion trends that well preceded her upon this earth. Heh.

In related news, from a misguided effort to, well, who knows, she’s now convinced her morning oatmeal is best referred to as “pizz-orridge.” And sometimes we have “pizz-ancakes.” Word.