Henry was out of sorts from the moment he woke up this morning, announcing that he didn't like this day, that he didn't want to go to camp, that he wanted to "break the whole camp," and noooooOOO he did NOT want to go after lunch to Touch-a-Truck, the event of the season for Bloomington preschoolers. I told him to go get dressed while I changed James's diaper. Instead, he went and hid under the quilt on my bed, a favorite game inspired by a favorite literary work, Owl at Home. It's quite straightforward. It's called Strange Bumps.
"What's that strange bump?" I asked. (That's the game.)
He began giggling. I hauled him out, turned him upside down and pulled his pants off. He guffawed.
"Wait, what's that?" I asked. "On your butt?"*
"What?"
"You have a tail!" I said, pulling a four-inch long piece of string from between his buttocks.
He did a dance of delight, whooping.
"I changed my mind," he said when he settled down. "I do love this day. This is a GREAT day!"
"Yes, a day can always get better," I said, moralistically.
*I can't help noting that even now, at 40, I feel dreadfully transgressive when I use the word butt, thanks to my mother's indoctrination. "Fuck" was OK in a pinch, but "butt" and "armpit" were never to be uttered.
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