all right, she can stay
Saturday, December 25th, 2004
Christmas Eve. We’re all curled up in bed, sleeping late. Claire turns to me and says: “Peepee-you -” (this is her word for any small bird that makes a peeping noise) “peepee-you is a baby chicken.”
Later I say: “I’m feeling lazy Miss Claire. Would you get up and make us some tea?”
She pads off into the living room and comes back chanting “Hot tea, hot tea.” She’s found the mugs with the dregs from the night before, and brings them to us one at a time. Hardly spills a drop.
