Warthogs day

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On Friday, I picked my girl up early from school for some Mommy-daughter time. We don’t get to do these things quite so often anymore. We were long overdue.

Our hands wrapped around warm paper cups, we reconnected. We talked of the fireplace in the middle of the Starbucks, how crowded it was. We talked of her day at school and our plans for the weekend.

And then, her eyes lit up.

“Tomorrow is warthogs day!”

“Warthogs day?” It wasn’t until I repeated it that I knew what we were talking about.

“Warthogs day! The warthog comes out of his hole and if he sees my shadow we have six more weeks of winter. And if he doesn’t see your shadow, its spring and then summer!”

I smiled. I tried so hard to not laugh. I contemplated what to correct, what to let go.

I contemplate this kind of thing often. Normally, I let it go. And so, we still put our milk in the refridgerdator, eat psghetti for dinner, ring the ding bell at the front door, and celebrate warthog’s day on the second of February.

I know I should correct her. I know it’s my job to strengthen her vocabulary. Help her grow into a well-spoken young woman.

But yellow is no longer lellow. Potatoes are no longer potapoes. Balloons are no longer babloons.

These things resolve on their own. And each time I hear a word correctly pronounced that used to come out so perfectly mangled, my heart aches just a little.

So for the rest of the afternoon, we talked about that warthog. And, the next morning, we got up and watched him wake up on TV (woohoo early spring!).

Groundhog’s day might come every year. But warthogs day comes just once in a lifetime.

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