The girl yesterday texted her mother that Lily Jane had called her father a wretch. We were at once pleased and a little concerned. 'Wretch' does beat hell out of 'poopyhead' [or most any other insult you'd get from most two-year-old kids], and we're a word-besotted lot, admiring verbal verve. Plus, 'wretch' will come up in discussions around our house and is unlikely at nursery school, so she may have acquired it at our hearth. Nonetheless, it's probably what they designate inappropriate for her to call her father a wretch. On the other hand, father and daughter share a certain spring-loaded temperament, and it might be well that she grow up to demonstrate her anger with Shakespearean invective rather than by throwing down on 'em with a .380. Kid's something. I can report that she has perfected the golden phrase, 'Pappy is a saint,' followed by a mad giggle.
The whole crew's descending upon us for Christmas dinner, and we'll be joined by a couple more of our regulars, folks you might style parafamily. Some are staying through Wednesday and some through Saturday. Damn but that's a lot of human contact.