Grandpa has been donating money to some Native American elementary school for years, and every Christmas without fail they send him some token of appreciation, handcrafted by the (ridiculously talented, Jesus Christ!) children, whom I of course long ago dubbed The Little Injuns That Could. (Grandpa says I’m an asshole.)
This year they sent Grandpa a dreamcatcher keychain, which he in turn gave to ••••. When •• showed it to me last night, I smiled and replied, “What a coincidence!” (vocab word), and I raised my shirt a bit to let him see that I happened to be wearing a dreamcatcher navel ring.
A few minutes later, I hear frustrated noises coming from the living room and walk in to discover my son attempting to hook the damned thing onto his own belly button, totally bewildered as to “WHY WON’T IT STAY??
PROUD MOMMY MOMENT!
••••: “May’n, May’n.”
••••: “I want May’n!”
Me: “I don’t understand…”
•••• [getting impatient]: “I want May’n!”
•••• [nodding]: “May’n.”
Me: “…Iron Maiden??”
••••: “Iron May’n. I want Iron May’n.”
My dad freaked out when I told him about •••• requesting “Iron May’n.” He said Iron Maiden isn’t appropriate music for a boy his age. I asked what was inappropriate about them. Not knowing a damn thing about Maiden, he replied, “You can’t understand anything they’re saying.”
I’m sorry, you name for me just ONE Iron Maiden song in which you can’t understand the lyrics! Bruce Dickinson is like the Frank Sinatra of metal.