Zoey has been obsessed with hopping lately. Hopping everywhere. Off of everything. Makes me thankful we never did decide to rent out our downstairs--any renter would pack their shit and run after a day or two of what sounds like a small earthquake overhead. And no matter how many times we tell her to please, PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP LEAPING OFF THINGS, she just can't. It's in her blood.
Recently, perhaps as an explanation for her obsessive new habit, she has been telling us she is now a kangaroo. Or, kangawoo. She wishes to be a kangaroo in that sweet way of small children, who think if they practice enough, they can actually become the bird or the airplane so they can really fly.
We've even gone so far as to tuck small stuffed animals in the waistband of our underpants to complete the kangawoo persona. Yes. I said WE.
The other night, after a 3 a.m. potty run, Zoey crawled in to bed between Bryan and I.
Bryan: Who is that in my bed? Is it my Zo-bug?
Zoey: (sleepily, already half-dreaming) No, Daddy...I a kangawoo.
Be the kangaroo, Zoey. BE THE KANGAROO.
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