Above me were parents, each with two hands: With one they covered their faces, and with another they were wiping my mouth. And they were calling to one another: "Holy, holy, holy cow is this a mess."
At the sound of my voice the doorposts and thresholds shook and the kitchen was covered with baby food. "Woe to me!" I cried. "I am ruined! For I am a baby of unclean lips."
Then one of the parents flew to me with a rubberized spoon in her hand, which she had taken from the cabinet. With it she touched my mouth and said, "See, this is apple-blueberry puree; now please calm down."
Then I heard the voice of my parents saying, "Who sent us this baby? And will we ever have a normal life again?" And I said, "Here am I. Feed me!"
--Maddie
3 comments:
Clearly the thoughts and meanderings of a household affected by its patriarch writing a dissertation on Isaiah.
Sweetheart,
Saith to your parents, 'This is the new normal. The former has passed away, and had a gaping hole in it anyway.'
Hang in there, champ. Gram is homing in for a hug, no matter the mess.
Maddie,
Someday you might take a class at Emory and learn that your source text, as well as your redacted version, are NOT CALL NARRATIVES! :) Never fear; this is up for (a little) debate.
Cameron
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