After dinner, Sunday evening. Photographed with Nikon D300, ancient 50mm manual lens.
I am still wrestling with what my proper response should have been to Alex suddenly calling out from her bedroom Saturday morning: "MOM? Can I have a whip like Indiana Jones?" Should it have been laughter? Pride in her choice of a successful and adventuresome anthropologist as her role model? Curiosity in her motives for needing a whip in the first place? Unmitigated concern in my own parenting skills?
When I mentioned to Marcus that I thought I wouldn't like to have a funeral upon my death, he suggested that he have me cremated, throw a party in celebration of my life, and combine my ashes with the grated nutmeg that would garnish the rum punch he served the guests in my honour. I am vacillating between being deeply horrified by his suggestion, and dumbstruck with admiration at his ingenuity.
Also? If I die, and Marcus invites you to a party, don't drink the rum punch.
Alex has taken up beatboxing. In describing the visual, I woudn't be exaggerating if I told you to imagine a somewhat flatulant (or at the very least, raspberry-making) mouse, doing, inexplicably, Riverdance. Marcus and I have decided we can forgive her form, since it turns out the kid actually has some rhythm.