The Pirate loves guitars. I recently took a sweet picture of The Pirate with his Dad. Mr. Right was playing the guitar. The picture had a warm orange-ish glow to it. The Pirate was in his soft jammies looking at the camera. It was classic.
Maddeningly it got deleted.
By me.
Of course I didn’t mean to.
But still, The Pirate loves guitars. He loves his dad and therefore loves guitars.
The Pirate’s guitar is a purple, toy, Hannah Montana guitar a friend lent us. It still belongs to her 9 year old daughter.
Way back when Mr. Right took me to L.A., my friend watched The Pirate for the day. When it was time to bring him home he refused to relinquish the guitar. We’ve had it for six months now. The daughter is probably wondering what happened to it. Whenever we go over to her house I suspect my friend is secretly considering why we didn’t bring it back. She also hasn’t offered to watch The Pirate anymore…hmm.
Give it back?
Uh, let’s honestly consider that. If there is a toy out there that your child would play with every day instead of dragging into the middle of the living room and mindlessly depositing it with reckless abandon to not be thought of again until you went out of your way to put it away where it was promptly found again – forget your child, would you be willing to part with it?
Buy him one?
Ha!
If you just suggested that then you probably don’t know me.
The nice thing about my lack of morals is that it gives us bonding time. While The Pirate jams we girls jump and jive (because he would rather die than be seen dancing – unless it’s dancing naked in which case he gets his groove on with enthusiasm.)
We're staying at my sisters house. She too owns a small toy guitar. Hers is red.
This morning as The Pirate strummed and sang The Pixie and I jived. Since we’ve established the possibility that you don’t know me well, I’ll take this opportunity to inform you that jiving is a polite way of describing my dance moves. Or lack of. Technically speaking I shouldn’t even use the word “dance” to describe how I move.
So there I was not dancing – but somehow moving to the beat of The Pirates guitar and feeling like a fabulous mother when The Princess walked in, stopped in her tracks and stared at me.
“What are you doing?” She politely asked, “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
That is an accurate description of my dancing.