…a couple of weeks ago, the girls and I were in the car in a restaurant parking lot, waiting for Daddy to meet us for dinner. Both of my babies were in the back seat reading; PunkinPie was working on a book about Someone-or-Other’s Worst Birthday Ever and Beanie was flipping through a book about faeries. Anyway, Punkin’s book was about a girl who had to cancel her ninth birthday party because she’d come down with the chicken pox. Our conversation went something like this:
PP – Hey, Mommy?
Me – Yes?
PP – What’s a plog?
Me – I have no idea. Give it to me in a sentence?
PP – “I’m sorry, Jessie,” Denise said, “I have to cancel my party. I have the plog.”
Me – (slightly confused) Spell it, please?
PP – P-L-A-G-U-E
Me – OH!! Plague!
PP – (with the excitement of recognition) OH!! BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!!!!
Can you tell what kind of household *I* run that my not-quite-nine-year-old readily makes this reference??