Princess

So Kendall and Grace seem to be acclimating to their new daycare. No longer does Kendall cry when I pick her up. In fact, she now runs over to grasp my thighs and show off her new pigtails that Miss Marcy braids every day. Funny how I can't even pull a brush through her hair, yet she allows Miss Marcy to practically put corn rows throughout her head.

And so I picked her up and she's got these Pippi Longstocking braids, the kind that bend up at the end as though wires twist them toward the clouds.

"Look, I'm a princess," she tells me.

Wow. You look beautiful, I say. She kind of blushes.

We find Grace, and I load them into the truck, and I pass around milk, water, and bags of buzzy-buzzy bee cereal (known nationally and beyond as Honey Nut Cheerios.) Well, the milk and Cheerios must've hit the spot for the little princess, for once we get home, she runs off to some far corner of the house where one can quietly squeeze out a number two into the Pamper. She comes running out, beaming, relieved. I can smell her as she approaches.

Did you go in your pants?

"Mommy, Mommy. I'm a princess and I made a princess poop, a giant princess poop."

I haven't seen a child look so proud over a bowel movement that wasn't made on the toilet.

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On Tuesday Christine and I headed out for six miles in a slight drizzle. We begged for the clouds to hold off, for we always joke how we've never been caught in a serious storm. We'd done sleet, snow, and slight rain. Damn, we'd make great postal workers. But we've never endured a downpour together.

That changed at about 2.45 miles into the run. 2.45 is the Route 100 turnaround where all of a sudden the water began pelting, and she began cursing, and I began laughing. Running in the rain is grand for the soul for it truly is cleansing of some impurity of life. It takes you back to childhood of running through forbidden puddles. Stomping in puddles really is fun. And it really is harmless--unless you're wearing really expensive shoes or wearing a white linen dress.

Well, the rain was so heavy it was raining buckets of cats and dogs. Not just buckets. Not just cats and dogs. Big freakin' buckets that contain Marmaduke dogs and round-bellied cats. At mile five, we agreed that we won't cut it short because it was too late. Nothing was dry. My shirt slapped against my stomach repeatedly, my shorts clung to my thighs, and my socks squished out water. So we crossed an intersection where water has gathered. In a blonde moment, I yelled at Christine to "watch out for the puddle." For some reason she found this profoundly hysterical, and I guess it was, because we were already drenched.

"Watch out for the puddle? I'm f*cking soaked," she yips at me.

Back at my house, I gave her a Princess Jasmine towl so she could strip down to her underwear to drive home.

You can't buy that kind of fun.