Monday, November 2, 2009

Beware of narts

Seating arrangements are pretty fluid in our house. The girls move around the table like some mysterious round of musical chairs is in effect, though only they can hear the music. So while L frequently sits in the chair by the baking cabinet, last night at dinner she dragged her pink booster to the chair by the banister. Everyone else had settled in to their ketchup (with hot dogs) (except for E, who ate plain spaghetti and two pints of raspberries) so I was left with L’s vacated chair near the baking cabinet.

I almost sat, and then stopped. “Ew,” I said, noticing the sludge on the wood seat. Moisture had gotten trapped under the booster, as had some corn kernels. I set my plate down and grabbed a baby wipe. (Three baby wipes, really; that’s how many the decontamination required.) Oh, Mama, don’t worry, said E from the chair beside me. Looking down at the seat she pronounced, those are just narts.

“Narts?” I questioned dubiously.

Yes, those are certainly narts, said E. (I love when she uses the word ‘certainly.’)

“I don’t think I know about narts. What are they?”

They’re those, Mama! she said in her best of-course-you-do tone.

“Could you help me remember?”You know narts. They’re food but don’t eat them because they’re bad for you. They give you bellyaches. They’re not made, like Carler, but he’s nice so he’s not a nart. They’re skeletons of fish and they have no arms and they’re food but not for eating. They don’t smell nice and they make messes and now you have to clean them up. Those are narts and that’s why you don’t want to sit on them.

Luckily, now I know. And so you don’t get in trouble with the young authority in your life, now you know, too.
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