Last night I stayed up way too late giggling with Matilda. But I couldn’t help it. She’s pretty great.
We read a George and Martha book, which is one of her favorites (mine, too.) We also read chapters from this other book called Matilda Bone, which she is weary of, because the Matilda in the story is a total holy roller buzzkill who won’t even play cards. Then the light went off and things got kinda random.
She was asking, for example, how anyone could name their baby “Rudy.”
In our house, “rude” means “disgusting, gross, barfy.” She also expressed similar at anyone being named “Dick.”
Speaking of dicks, she was wrestling with the whole Is Santa Real Thing, which was giving me high blood pressure because it’s such a lie and also because she spoke of how much she wanted to “keep her slivers of hope alive” that Santa is real. I was a total dodger and deflecter, Reader. Said things like, “Do you think he’s real?” “What would change for you if Santa wasn’t real?” etc.
“I wouldn’t have to take the whole risk of being naughty if he wasn’t real, anymore,” she said. “So that part would be easier. Besides, I know my parents would still give me presents. Because they’re not dicks. They love me.”