(In 2437 stories we’ve never had a guest story-teller! The other day, Noelle of SaylingAway, left a family tale in the comments which I repost here for all to see. Thank you Noelle!)
My son was not quite five when he started school (kindergarten). He took the bus after school all by himself to the YMCA. We were called by the YMCA Director after a week or two because she said he was making inappropriate gestures at the other children. We met her with my son and she told us he’d been giving the other children the middle finger. When we asked him about this, he said yes, he did, and held up his hand with his middle finger up but bent at the first joint.
I asked him what that meant and he said his grandfather did it (my Dad had terrible arthritis and couldn’t fully extend his finger) and had told my son when he did it, “This means I won’t be going to heaven.” The director sputtered and said we needed to tell our son what it really meant and not to do it. We laughed all the way home.
It was to be the first birthday of Robyn’s firstborn, a girl, and the first grandchild of Mario and Dora. Robyn organized a little party for the occasion.
Robyn couldn’t believe that a whole year had gone by since the birth of her daughter. She had spent ages, both before and after the birth, in selecting a name for her child. It had to be something different; something uncommon but pronounceable; something that wasn’t silly and sounded like a proper name. Robyn thought of Keats, but really that was more suited to a boy. She thought of foreign names; some of the African names were beautiful but no one would know how to pronounce them properly.
Of course, it could be said that Robyn had spent too much time in selecting a name for her daughter. “Just name the child!” Robyn’s mother had said.
Now, a year on at the party things still weren’t settled. Robyn made an announcement.
“I’m changing the baby’s name. When I named her originally I thought the name was beautiful, but not so any more. From now on she will be known as Veronica and not Corona.”
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, a king and queen ruled over a distant land. The queen was kind and lovely and all the people of the kingdom adored her. The only sadness in the queen’s life was that she wished for a child but did not have one.
One winter’s day, the queen was sewing an apron to sell to raise money for the local school. She gazed out the ebony window at new fallen snow. She pricked her finger. A single drop of blood fell on the snow. As she looked at the blood on the snow she said, “How I wish I would have a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony.”
Well quite frankly if that’s what she wanted she shouldn’t have married a king from the Highlands of Papua New Guinea.
That’s the trouble with Bertrand; he’s so pig-headed. He might be only eight years old, but he’s as stubborn as an ox. I am almost embarrassed to admit that I gave birth to such a creature. Sometimes I suspect he’s a little backward when it comes to the brains department. Here he comes now.
“Did you clean the stain off the laundry floor as I asked?”
“Yes, but it didn’t work very well. I used mainly water, with 5% tetrasodium ethylenediaminetetraacetate, 6% disodium oxosilanediolate, and 2% alkyl(C8-10) polyethoxypolypropoxybenzene ether. I thought that would work.”
“You naughty, naughty boy. I told you to use 5% boric acid, 5.3% nonylphenol polyethylene glycol ether, 14% dipropylene glycol monomethyl ether, and 1.6% tetrasodium ethylenediamine tetraacetate. No wonder the stain is still there. Go back and try again.”
See what I mean? Stubborn as an ox. He certainly doesn’t take after me, that’s for sure.