Monday night, The Kidling improvised a magnificent song. It was a lilting ballad, sung in her pitch-perfect contralto. A love song, if you will, and the object of her affection was The Mama—Not muffins. Not Nana. Not Clifford, spaghetti, nor even the mighty theropod. No, on this one, glorious evening, her lyric told a story of love, and it was all for The Mama.
That’s right. Me.
And she delivered every note of this wee tune whilst staring at The Dada.
I didn’t bother to stifle my giggle.