Good News: The Twins have a new favorite game, the classic bubonic-plague-inspired “Ring Around the Rosie,” which they not only enthusiastically sing and play themselves, but also have their legion of Fisher Price Little People perform.
Whenever we’re out running errands, they sing it uncontrollably, as the song is constantly in their heads. They often get stuck in an endless loop of their favorite lyric, “Ashes, ashes.” It is adorable.
Bad News: Their toddler-esque pronunciation of this line sounds remarkably like a certain body part, resulting in the booming, sing-songy repetition of “Asses, asses,” up and down grocery store aisles, while waiting for our food in restaurants, and, of course, in the middle of church.
As my wife so eloquently put it:
We have enough boogers in this house to fill a pool.
The Black Plague entered our home two weeks ago as a deceivingly slight discomfort in my wife’s throat the day before the Twins’ First Birthday Party EVER Extravaganza, and while this pivotal moment in American History was an overwhelming success, she was sadly not able to enjoy the festivities to her fullest capacity, as Mount Saint Mucus erupted mid-“Happy Birthday to You.”
Yes, that’s right. The Twins are now one year old. I intended to announce this with much more electronic fanfare and Michael-Bay-esque explosions, chronicling the event more extensively than the Royal Wedding for you, O Loyal Reader (as I am certain the mere mention of it now has you trembling in anticipation) but the Plague had other plans. My head is buried in the haze of infection, so a coherent reflection on the first year of fatherhood will have to wait.