Wednesday, June 6, 2007

More adorable tidbits

I was going to title this "adorable babbling," but I mistyped it as adorbable. And it is, frankly, adorbable:

My daughter has a CD of quaint old songs, including "There Ain't No Bugs on Me" (which is currently featured on a commercial for flea-repellent, performed by puppies whose mouths move in unnatural ways. Fake talking animals are also repellent, interestingly enough. But I digress, as usual).

My daughter hears the song as "There're Rainbow Bugs on Me," and has taken to sprinkling me with Rainbow bugs at various times. I find it charming. Plus, I can't figure out how to explain an ungrammatical double-negative to a child who still hyper-corrects her past tense. Rainbow bugs it is.

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5 Comments:

At 7:43 PM , Blogger Yankee T said...

awwwww.

 
At 4:07 AM , Anonymous MindSpin said...

Rainbow bugs sound at least as wonderful as lightning bugs.

 
At 8:34 AM , Blogger Snickollet said...

She is undeniably adorbable, your daughter.

As an aside, if you have any good kids' CDs to recommend, the twins and I are woefully low on good kid music.

 
At 10:27 AM , Blogger bg's Little Sis said...

How wonderful...I think I'll go get a sprinkle of them myself today!

One kid CD that mine loved was, "There's a Dinosaur in My Bed"...I can't remember the woman who did it, we found it at our library and finally purchased a copy.

 
At 6:59 AM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

Dear Rainbow-bug sprinkled person,

I recently saw a poem that reminded me of you ... and your musings here of an endless kiss (everything you write is drenched with that kiss) and the echoes of that kiss that reverberate in and through you ...

You clearly stand beautifully and successfully with Hafiz, who said, "One regret, dear world, that I am determined not to have when I am lying on my deathbed is that I did not kiss you enough."

I can only thrust this poem in your hands and repeat and hope (as the wisest among us would say) "enjoy."

Gate C22
==========

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching--
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn't look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after--if she beat you or left you or
you're lonely now--you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

Ellen Bass

 

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