Mythology Ith Funny

I hear this from our bedroom last night, while Terry watched Narnia with the girls:

"That thentaur hath a horth thutuck to hith butt."

translation:
"That centaur has a horse stuck to his butt."

Don and Tiny

I'm neither sure of the origins of the title or the story behind this cute rodent narrative. (Fiona is asleep now, but if her explanation is good I'll post an update tomorrow.) All I do know is that this was the title she gave Terry, and this is so telling of my daughter.

While her 3 year old sister has a wider vocabulary than her (granted Neve could talk the horns off a billy goat), clearly she has a lot she's thinking about and wants to say. And I love seeing it spill out onto paper.

My mother (an old fashioned Italian woman) is positive that it has something to do with "serving a man". I'm sure she was clutching her chest with bursting pride as she made this observation. Ah, madonne.

Reisenstraub met the Hornworm

Our tomatoes are turning red, slowly but surely. And we even have this lovely "Georgia Streak" variety that has shades of pink, red, purple, and yellow showing their colors. But, my favorite variety, primarily because of it's fun-to-say name ("Reisenstraub!", said with the worst angry German accent you've ever heard), is an early ripener. They are larger than their cherry friends, smaller than the Brandywines, redder than the Cherokee Purples and Eva Purple Balls, and... I can't remember the names of the other two remaining varieties we planted. I love them. I love that in the anticipation of watching these things grow, you become attached to every last "milestone" within the garden's fence.

• • •

I once made the mistake of telling a friend (in the company of my wide-eyed children) that I wanted to show them the great joy of my life, my pride-and-joy, the reason I wake up in the morning, etc, etc. I pointed the way to the garden.

Blink, blink.

(It goes without saying that the climbing leaves and mounds of dirt in the backyard fall in line after my children, of course.)

• • •

That is why when a gardener sees his/her children of the flora type being eaten by this giant:


...you get angry. But then you take it's picture. And then you read an Eric Carle book. And then you explain for the 90th time that week why you can't keep insects in the house as pets. And then you paint the picture of such insects curling up in bed with you when your sister forgets to put the lid on it's habitat (half-cut soda bottle with Saran wrap over the top). And then you try to un-paint that picture as the sun sets and children get a case of the heebeejeebees before nightfall.

Ahhh, nature.