I Deserve a Brownie Badge For This.

“On top of spaaaaaghetti,
all covered in cheeeeese,
I lost my poor meatball,
when somebody sneezed.”
Stunned silence, rapt attention. Bonhomme is cuddled next to me, under the covers, not a twitch to be seen.
“It rolled off the taaaaable,
and onto the floor,
and then my poor meatball
rolled out of the door.
It rolled into the gaaaaarden,
and under the fence,
and then my poor meatbaaaaaall… uhhhh… rolled under a – ummmm… I forget. What rhymes with fence? I haven’t sung this in years. I forget what comes next. What do you think, Love? What happens next to the meatball?”
“I dunno! Tell me! Tell me, Mommy!”
“Well, let’s see. It rolled into the gaaaarden,
and under the fence,
and then my poor meatball
rolled into the… forest.
Where a family of deer
came trotting on by,
and stepped on that meatball,
and squished it into a soggy pile.
And then all of the critters
that lived there did come,
and they ate up that squishy meatball mess,
every last squishy crumb.”
I hear a suspicious sniff.
I peer over at Bonhomme, all curled up in my arms.
“Hey Baby, are you OK? You seem a little bit upset.”
“Yaaaahhhhh! Waaahaaaahaaaa….!”
“Honeybunny, why are you crying? What’s wrong? Did you not like the song?”
“Yah but, but, but the poor meatball! I’m so sad that it got squished! Waaaahaaaaahaaaa….!”
“Oh Love, I just didn’t remember the words, so I made some up. The meatball doesn’t have to get squished, we can change the song. Besides Hon – it’s a meatball. Do you normally feel quite so strongly about meatballs?”
“Yaaaaahhhh! I love them! And I don’t want them to be squished! And all alone and mucky in the forest on the ground! Waaaahaaaahaaaa…!”
“Oh. I didn’t know you love meatballs so much.”
“I do!”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“And you shouldn’t ever squish them! They mean so much to me!”
“OK, Love. We don’t have to squish any more meatballs. How about we fix the song, and resurrect that meatball, and give it a different fate?”
“Yaaaahhhhh….!”
“Do you think that maybe you’re being a little bit dramatic and identifying a little strongly with this meatball, Love? That maybe you’re very tired and that’s why you’re overreacting?”
“Noooooooooo….! I’m not too tired! This is a very important meatball!”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
“Now sing it again, Mommy. Properly, this time.”
“OK, but you have to promise to settle down, and cuddletime will be done as soon as the song is over.”
“OK Mumma. Now sing.”
“On top of spaghetti,
all covered in cheese,
I lost my poor meatball,
when somebody sneezed.”
Happy wriggles.
“It rolled off the taaaaable,
and onto the floor,
and then my poor meatball
rolled out of the door.
It rolled into the gaaaaarden,
and under the fence,
and then my poor meatball
rolled into the forest.
Where a family of deer
came trotting on by,
and they kicked up that meatball
and through the air it did fly.”
I feel myself being very carefully scrutinized. Clearly, my next words are expected to meet a certain standard.
“It flew up through the branches,
and over the trees,
and into a raincloud,
where it was washed clean as you please.
Flying in the sky was exciting,
waving hello to the moon,
but soon the meatball felt cold
and sad to be all alone.
So it fell back to earth,
having had a lovely adventure,
and landed back on your spaghetti,
ready to be your delicious dinner.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmm! Thanks Mummy! I love that song.”
“I’m glad, Love, because I don’t think I could recreate it quite the same ever again.”
“That’s OK, Mumma. Next time, the meatball could go somewhere else.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yah. Like it could go on a rocketship! And blast off! Like this!”
Much rustling and thumping and rocketshippy noises erupt from the one-moment-ago-sleepy-nest-of-a-bed.
“OK now Love, that’s enough. It’s bedtime. Settle down. One last hug.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm! I love you Momma. You’re my best friend!”
“I love you too, Sweetheart. Sweet meatbally dreams.”
Giggle.
“Sweet dreams, Momma.”

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