When we last left Cinnamon Cricket she’d put her sticky jam fingers on Hoot the cat’s purebred fur coat and he was none too happy about it. You can read it here if you need a refresher.
Their adventure continues…
…The mail is here and there’s a package from Grandma! Mum helps me open it and inside is a tambourine (OMG!!!), a postcard from New Zealand, and a square that says Jitterbug. WOW!
Firstly, Mum takes great pains to tell me about New Zealand because education and I start yawning to show I don’t care and almost fall off the change table trying to grab the jitterbug. Seriously, WHAT IS A JITTERBUG?! This results in two things happening: Mum assumes I’m tired and need to go to bed, and Mum gets the guilt-bug so bad she scoops me into the guilt-bug-hug. I really hope a jitterbug isn’t the same as a guilt-bug because my ribs can’t take two sorts of bugs that squeeze you to death. Part of the guilt-bug-hug involves Mum whizzing me from side to side and singing the SAME SONG in my ear over and over. This is supposed to comfort me when I’m supposedly upset about almost plummeting to my death. It was comforting when I was as big as a cucumber and had eyes like a baby mole looking into the sun for the first time, but that was AGES ago. I’m BIG now. Being whizzed back and forth with guilt-induced speed and ferocity means my eyes can’t focus on anything and I feel dizzy. And why, WHY would the same song over and over and over and over be comforting?! Clearly Mama ISN’T going to buy me a mockingbird so quit harping on about it.
Every time Mum whizzes me past the dresser I make a lunge for the JITTERBUG and I miss it every time, partly because the whizzing is so fast and partly because I can’t see anything. How can Mum get it so wrong? I don’t need to be a human rollercoaster, nor do I need a diamond ring, looking glass, or billy goat, I just need that JITTERBUG.
There’s only one thing left to do and that’s yell jitterbug at the top of my voice over and over again until Mum gets it. The only problem with that of course is that Mum doesn’t understand baby (this is a HUGE design flaw, God, you should really look into that) and even though I’m yelling JITTERBUG!, JITTERBUG!, JITTERBUG! with my best enunciation, all Mum can hear is Waaaaaaah, Waaaaaah, Waaaaaaah! This is beyond frustrating and I need to phone a friend.
The only friend I can reliably phone is Hoot because we have a secret code word. It came into being from the great pork rib incident of 2014. (Mum heard pureeing food for babies was no longer the done thing so she handed me a pork rib as big as my head when I was five months old. No longer the done thing is cause for much discussion and considerable stress in this house.) During the great pork rib incident of 2014, after I managed to extract a pork rib as big as my head from my left lung, Hoot and I discovered that while I don’t like pork ribs, he does, and if I yell PORK RIBS! at the top of my lungs Hoot understands it! It was an honest-to-god Christmas miracle, and now Hoot and I use it only in dire circumstances. There are only a set amount of times you can holler PORK RIBS! when there are no pork ribs and Hoot will come to your aid. It’s a Christmas miracle that must not be used lightly.
Hoot’s paws sound like elephant feet thundering down the hall. He wants those pork ribs bad. He takes the corner into my room so fast he crashes into the doorframe. Good thing he’s bendy.
Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs Pork ribs pork ribs. Give me those delectable, beguiling ribbies of goodness before my purebred head of preponderant intelligence and charisma explodes in sheer need of piggy, ribby goodness.
In hindsight, this may not have been the PORK RIB emergency I first thought it was. Hoot is drooling on the floorboards just as I figure out that seeing the JITTERBUG is shaped like all the other CDs Grandma sends, it’s probably just a CD. Yeah, that makes sense.
Drama ensues! Stay tuned!