Nibbles and Chewy (yeah, that’s what I’m calling baby byte these days) were tossed in the tub, for my mandatory ten minutes of solitude, so that I could soak in the freshly painted walls. Of course, mommy solitude is an oxymoron, so Nibbles promptly rectified that with a tantrum.
Nibbles: “I need my bath toys”
NP: “They’re in the other bathroom. It’s getting painted”.
Nibbles: “I neeeed my bath toys”.
NP: “Quit wiggling”

I tossed Nibbles beside a very busy Chewy who was splashing about in the water with multi-colored plastic bottles filled with cancerous chemicals promising to defrizz my tentacles. Bath toys. Does the human mind get married to rigid object definitions this early in life? Is four years all that it takes to curtain the window of one’s imagination and dim the artificial lamp light to comfortable levels?

Nibbles: “Nooo! I can’t take a shower without them”.

Jim Morrison cries along in the background, “…my only friend, the end”

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