CarpeBanana

Every now and then I realize Mr Music gets it. He really does. He understands when he’s done something he shouldn’t have.

He tends to get a pesky bit of spring allergies. But tonight it was much worse than the norm, eyes watering and red, etc, and I commented that I had picked up some medicine for him at the store and would give it to him in the morning.

At which point he shared with me, “Well, my nose still smells like pepper from smelling that pepper stuff.”

“What pepper stuff?” I ask, thinking he must have been sniffing the hot sauce or the green pepper in the fridge or did he sniff black pepper to try to make himself sneeze or is he so uneducated about flowers he thinks the lilac or bleeding hearts I cut and set on the table are some sort of pepper.

“You know,” he says, failing to make eye contact. “The kind in the closet by the door for spraying on bad guys.”

Oh. That pepper stuff. “Did you spray it?” I ask, beginning to understand the watering eyes and whatnot.

“I may have.”

“Did you press the button?”

“I may have.”

Oh my. He may have learned something.

I hereby give warning to any mothers considering starting classical education with their young children: if you do not want to have (very) weird children on your hand RUN the other direction.

This afternoon I was getting dinner supplies out of the fridge and dropped the pancake syrup. I asked Miss Language (who happened to be nearby) if she wanted any syrup. And in response, she starts paraphrasing Kierkegaard… “I stick my feet into the syrup: it sticks of stickiness…” (I stick my finger into existence and it smells of nothing…)

Run, I say. Before it is too late.