Isabelle was sick a few weeks ago. Since Isabelle is rarely sick, neither of us knew quite what to do with ourselves, stuck in the house with not much to do. She spent quite a few hours comforted by the cool of the leather couch, contentedly watching another episode of “Calliou” on PBS.
Much to my vexation.
That’s how I feel about Calliou. Vexation. What I actually allow my kids to watch on TV is a fairly accurate indicator of how
desperate I am sick they are. Usually I can’t tolerate those ridiculously annoying shows, Calliou is a good example. Yo Gabba Gabba is another, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. But due to the emergent situation, Calliou it was. She was happy, I was happy. Relatively speaking.
I went in to check on her, as I had done numerous times that day, and I stopped. And looked. I was taken aback at her beauty. And had to run for the camera this time…. I didn’t want to trust my memory to recall each and every intricacy of her exquisite face. The brilliance of her jet black hair, such a far cry from the bristly brown ‘do of almost 4 years ago. Her smile, her flawless ivory skin, the curvature of her Lilliputian nose.
She takes my breath away. She did then and she does now. Even when she smells like vomit.