Whitman

communion comedy

Grace and Whit both took communion for the first time today (one of many things I learned in yesterday’s pre-baptism class is that baptism, not confirmation, is the entree into communion).

They were both fairly hilarious at the altar. Whit asked the minister, quietly, “Does this cracker have nuts in it?” before politely saying “No thank you” to the wine.

Grace took the wine, grimaced, and walked back to the pew with me.

“What was that?” she asked

“Wine, Grace.”

“Just wine? Nothing else? I had real live wine?”

“Yes, Gracie.”

“Yuck.”

“Don’t worry, white wine is better.”

“Next time, can you ask them to use white wine?”

Dancing, and ties


(note both majesty tie and that Whit is fully aloft)

These dear, hilarious children of mine. So funny and warm in spite of all of my mistakes! They deserve much better than a “mother who is more shade than sun.” (Daphne Merkin)

Children of the internet era

Whit this morning:

“For Christmas, Mummy, I want my own ‘puter. And some other stuff too.”

(dream on, buddy)

Later, Whit confirmed that by “other stuff” he meant Star Wars stuff.

Grace yesterday:

“Mum, did you know there is American Girl Calm?”

“American Girl Calm? Is that like yoga American Girl? Meditating American Girl? Zen American Girl?”

puzzled look. “What?”

“What do you mean American Girl Calm?”

“You know, on the computer.”

“Oh! Americangirl.com! Dot com. Dot calm!”

Exercise pants for all

As we know, Whit is deeply enamored of his exercise pants. Oh, my, is he hilarious. This afternoon I was in my office when Grace and Whit came storming upstairs. Grace was talking to me about her day when Whit came out of his room (wearing his very favorite shirt, from Gloria), a knot of blue knit fabric in his hand.

“Here, Gracie. These exercise pants are for you.” He said, proferring the item with the solemnity of someone offering the crown jewels.

“Whit, I don’t want your exercise pants.” Grace rolled her eyes at me.

“Grace, come on, he is being nice.” I broke in.

“But they won’t fit me!” She protested.

“You won’t know until you try,” I said, thinking of how every single pair of pants she has ever worn has slipped down her hips to reveal her butt crack. My daughter the plumber.

“They are really good for exercise!” Whit, always in sales mode, insisted.

“Grace, just try them on.” I urged her on.

So she did. And they did exercises, together, on the third floor landing.