We were watching YouTube videos of people ice skating, in preparation of an ice-skating playdate this weekend. Little Boy sort of freaked out watching professional skaters (“I can’t do that,” he stated, taking in the triple lutzes, salchows, and loops) so I dialed up some amateur skaters and eventually stumbled upon some renegade video footage of Disney on Ice, apparently filmed by a shaky Mom overseeing a brood of excitable girls. Little Boy liked this: “Look, fishy!” he cried, pointing to a skater in droopy fish costume before the camera’s point of view jerked to empty ice. I zoned out as the video played, mentally visualizing the contents of the refrigerator and assembling a makeshift Thursday night comfort meal, when I was stirred out of my domestic reverie:
“This is crap,” Little Boy said.
“What?!”
“Crap.”
“Crap?!” Inwardly I agreed, but oh, the panic at hearing that word articulated so solidly from my Little Boy’s mouth!
“Crap.” And Little Boy pointed to, alas, a man in a crab costume. He looked bewildered at my sudden, fierce reaction to the innocent-looking costumed crustacean.
“Ah, yes.” I relaxed. “Crab. Cra-bbbb.”