Yesterday my daughter said about our one remaining cat, "she's gone outside to play with her dead friend." Which considering how animals are might not be that far from the truth. It's fairly well known (I think) that sometimes when the elderly pass away at home that their dogs stay with them - and then sometimes start eating them. There's a, "awww it's so cute, OH GOD NO IT'S NOT!" meme going around right now showing puppies eating various dead animals. It's not exactly outlandish to suggest that might be happening here as well.
Obviously I didn't discuss that with my daughter. I'm not irresponsible and disproportionately garish. And by that I obviously mean I'm not my wife. I may joke and goof around with my kids in ways that many people think is silly. But my wife seems to be able to interject horrifying reality into any situation. I certainly do not believe in molly-coddling my kids. They know the cat is likely dead. And they know that those animals in the field are things we eat. But I have heard my wife casually ask my daughter, "can you imagine what it's like to stab a pig?" I think this explains why my daughter excitedly whelped last night, "oh Mommy!! Tell me the story about when you were a little egg!" Stockholm Syndrome obviously. It probably explains why she's been hiding all morning.
My wife - sadly gloating about this whole egg/omelette/serial killer story she tells - also asked my daughter to choose who tells better stories again. Why would she knock her own self-esteem like that? Obviously my daughter picked me. My wife even tried to make my stories sound lame by saying, "do you like my amazing egg story best, or Daddy's story when he's a little......whatever." She picked whatever. Awww diddums.
Continuing down the road of uncomfortable and disturbing truths did you know that Fruitloops come out just as bright and unnaturally shiny as when they went in? My daughter coined the word, "Fruip" to describe the oddly green, yellow and bright blue sausage that she birthed over the past Saturday. I'd forgotten about until coming back from the store. Which reminded me of a store we were at this weekend that I swear was selling a children's snack food called Gorgonzola Worms. I've Googled it and can't find anything so I'm assuming that my on brain invented it. Whatever it is it's made my bottom itch.
Other than that I've been fobbing off parenting responsibility to Thomas The Tank Engine. I have to pack a travel bag for my daughter (staying with the in-laws tonight and we go up tomorrow evening) and also get a few jobs done before she heads off to school. I have now come to the firm conclusion that Thomas is mental. I've detailed some of the weird monomaniacal aspects of the whole thing previously. And I've also briefly noted the shockingly relaxed attitude to health and safety conditions that have resulted in untold collisions, accidents and even catastrophe's involving a rowdy elephant. Honestly - the number of accidents and mass screw ups make British Rail look like a model of excellence.
But what I hadn't realized before is that Sir Topham Hat/The Fat Controller has clearly laced the water supply for the entire island with LSD. I know this because at one point there's a quick onscreen shot of Farmer McColl asleep in a chair in his kitchen. Except he's resting his feet on a sheep, which is also eating a birthday cake. There are quite a few things like this throughout. I've perused online and nobody seems to have latched on to this so I might have to be a saddo and take pictures. Add that the core principle of the show is that the trains are alive in some manner. So what are we all supposed to make of an episode where one of the trains plows headlong into a lake and gets stuck after the coal fire goes out in it's engine. Thereby leading the insane murderous Godhead Sir Topham Hat (I might be dabbling in a touch of hyperbole here....) insisting that the train's fire be kept alight by ripping up and burning the floorboards of the train coaches. In case you didn't know the coaches are also alive - and oddly mostly girls. One can only imagine the screams as the railway men amputated part of her and then forced her to watch as her engine ate her. Sheer madness.
Later today we're off to a school Thanksgiving lunch. All the kids have to bring something to serve that is actual food so my daughter wanted to take some corn (her grandparents are bringing it and attending too). I presume this is to make up for the fact that as the Letter of the Week is, "I" that the snacks the kids have had so far have been cupcakes and icing and an edible waffle cone thing filled with a marshmallow and covered in (you guessed it) icing.
That aside I'm excited for Thanksgiving. A holiday based around eating great food is always a winner. And it will mean that the countdown to Christmas can officially begin. I won't have to apologize for listening to Christmas music - even if it is the awesome Sufjan Stevens stuff that everybody should like any time of the year. It will also mean not having to hear the words, "Turkey Day" for an entire year again. I have no idea why but the usage of that to describe Thanksgiving grates me badly.
Balls to it - I'm drinking some egg nog.