"Mom, why did you take my basket?"
Basket you might think, as in, Little Red Riding Hood carrying goodies to her grandma. Which if you thought you would be sadly mistaken.
This, in fact, is a tough-and-sturdy for holding safari animals and plastic dinosaurs. And YoungSon is not well pleased to see his mother dump animals into plastic sack, so she can take the basket with its fellows to a friend who's decorating for a public function.
YoungSon, in fact, rolls his eyes, "Can't I at least put stuff in my basket to take over with us?"
"I suppose," as I carry an armload out to the car.
YoungSon chortles - which is really the only word, unless you say snortle - a sound betokening mischief in the offing, and conscious anticipatory pleasure therein. YoungSon explains, "Because I need to show Ben my Boy Kit."
"You don't want to know what's in my Boy Kit."
"I bet I can guess." Because he also has slung over his shoulder the rubber pellet gun his Other Grandfather gave him for his birthday.
So he has a rubber pellet gun. And a Boy Kit. And I am pretty sure I know what's in it.[Listen:Truly I thought, starting out, I was going to outlaw all violence from my children's imaginary play, but YoungSon came along after I was several years into this thing we call parenting and some of my thinking about the Desirable Forbidden had since shifted. Which is perhaps just as well.
This is, my friends, the child who negotiated to stay the day at a neighbor's the day they butchered their cow - "It's Carnivore Day!" he crowed when I came back to pick him up - and he had flecks of blood on his face.
He was very curious," said the neighbors. "He wanted to see how everything fit in by everything. So many questions."
I am trying to think it is because he says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up. It's not bloodthirstiness, nor the first warning of - well, we won't even go there - it is just anatomical curiosity. Right?
In any case, we do have house rules about toy swords, toy guns, all imaginary weapons - no pointing at people, no leaving the pellets nor their propellent lying out and around, ammo (and no, I don't care that it's rubber and just pretend) stored in a separate place from the "gun" - 'cause if it looks like a gun and talks like a gun -well!]
"Yeah? What?" he tries to call my bluff.
"Knives [as in pocket- , and I know there are also two twisty-bladed plastic ones he got somewhere]. Ammo. Hand grenades?"
He chortles/snortles, modulating into a nearly adolescent hoot, "They're stink bombs," and shows me. "And fart powder."
Which I must shamefacedly admit comes from "best Auntie in the whole wide world" - on my side (thanks, sis!)
"And I've got night-vision goggles and instant worms, too," YoungSon points out. "You just have to drop one in someone's glass of water and then . . . (snortle)! But I still need a machete and I NEED the stinky jelly beans that taste like throw-up - I've got my money saved up so I can get some, 'cause I know where they've got them."
"What kind of jelly beans?"
"Bean Boozled. Or Bertie Botts. But Auntie gave me Bean Boozled and they're most disgusting!"
10, 886 words - which still puts me ahead of schedule, but only adds a little over 2000 more than yesterday. (Only meaning - no cookie today.)
Also, both of my Word of the Day sites seem to have it in for me lately (and a not very high opinion of the fictional endeavor in itself):
- invective (insulting or abusive language : vituperation)
- maunder (to talk incoherently; to speak in a rambling manner)
- skulduggery (devious, dishonest, or unscrupulous behavior or activity)
- nudnik (a person who is a bore or nuisance)
But maugre (in spite of) all their invective, yea, even their vituperation, I look to do some fantastic writing today, writing that is, in fact, felicitous - i.e. suitably applied or expressed; appropriate; happy; delightful; marked by good fortune.