Of my friends with kids, Katrina is the most Mother Earth. I cannot present evidence of this without inciting arguments about which I do not remotely care. Suffice it to say that it would surprise no one if she sang "Kumbaya" to Annalie every night before bed.
To Katrina, any time not spent snuggling with Annalie is utterly wasted time. It was torture, then, when I called her office yesterday to tell her that her husband, parents, daughter and I were all together at her house while she worked. I guess I'm just thoughtful that way.
Those parties gladly stuck me with kid-watching duties, and I made the most of my quality time with Annalie.
"Can you say crack-whore?"
"Co-co."
"Crack-whore."
"Cwack-co."
"Crack-whore."
"Cwack-ho."
"Good! Have some chocolate."
Katrina eventually came home, and much snuggling ensued. At dinner, I looked at the child, pointed to Katrina, and said "Crack-whore."
"Crack-whore," Annalie chimed with perfect clarity. Katrina was aghast.
"No, Annalie! Don't say tha—"
The child's eyes grew wide with realization. "MOMMY CRACK-WHORE!"
I burst into applause. Dad burst into applause...inwardly. Mommy thunked her forehead on the table with surprising weight.
The rest of the night was dominated by a game in which Annalie sang "MOM-MY CRACK-WHORE!" and I responded by clapping two and three times. (Think the "o-ver-ra-ted" basketball chant.)
Other people's kids are fun.