It's a relief to listen to weekend NPR without a layer of screaming or low-grade whining. However: suspicious. I kneel down to peer at Oyo through the legs of the dining room table and there she is, all limbs wrapped around my hard foam...back thing? What would you call it? Like a pool noodle, but thicker, shorter. I roll on it to ease out the kinked up muscles. So anyway, she is seated, and wrapped around it in a double-hug, as if it were exceedingly precious, or desperate for escape; and is studiously gnawing at it. Somehow I needed the visual to hear the quiet grinding. Intellectually, I am aware that babies eat anything, but unfortunately my emotional side will arbitrarily decide, "Oh she wouldn't eat that~~" Oyo glowers at me as I extract a long sliver of blue plastic from her mouth. A few minutes later, she is hiccuping, and I can't help imagining some smaller blue particles lodged further down.
|Edibility contest. Foam:1, Muffin:0|
From Wednesday's Super Brief post, which didn't make it to the Finish Line
|being a cafe louse at Bona Sera.|
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