My daughter, seven years old, Cressy, brought home an art project she did last week. As an artist, I'm always interested in what she does. She showed me the project.
The wings are attached by little metal dohickeys that allow the wings to go up and down. So it can fly.
I said, "So, you did an eagle. Good job." But UH-OH! The mother train had derailed dramatically. I did not automatically see the artistic visionary process that a seven year old had portrayed in crayola a la carte.
"It's not an eagle," my little budding Van Gogh announced to me. Her tone was deadly serious. As a mother and parental unit, I had made a grievous error in judging too quickly. I looked again.
"Looks like an eagle to me," I said, wondering if I was stuffing my feet into my mouth. (Contrary to popular belief, fat women can, in fact, insert both feet into their mouths AND at the same time. I ought to know. I do it frequently.)
My daughter cast a death glare upon me. Sometimes I forget she's only seven. She's got that glare down to at least sixteen. Maybe even thirty.
"It's not an eagle," she said again.
"Oh kay," I said carefully. The death bell had tolled for thee, me, whatever. (Dead mommy walking.) "What is it?"
(Here it comes. It's a good one.) "It's a zombie eagle," she said with a straight face.
I looked again. "There's blood coming out of its mouth."
But Cressy wasn't done outlining her artistic creativity with the national bird of our country. "The pink stuff is...brain juice." (She paused for melodramatic effect.)
You see, if you previously read about the Cressy rules concerning zombies you would instantly comprehend her reasoning. See 'The Origin of Zombies OR Why We Must Never Drive Past Graveyards at Night.' Specifically, Zombies eat brains, brain juice and cereal. (Not any icky kinds of cereal like Wheaties and Corn Flakes. But the good stuff like Captain Crunch and Count Chocula.) Therefore if they eat the brains there's going to be brain-stuff all over the zombie eagle's chest. (Mommies are, apparently, clueless concerning zombie eagles.)
"You mean brains," I said. Obviously I had missed some integral details on my daughter's magnum opus.
"No, it's brain juice," my only offspring announced as if I was stupid. (I suspect to her I was.) "The zombie eagle ate the brains, so it's only juice on its feathers." (There was a silent, "Dumbass," on the end of that statement. What was I thinking? After all, it wasn't a zombie eagle with a bib.)
Now I'm picturing a restaurant just for zombie eagles. (Maybe zombie turkeys or zombie pelicans, if they're lucky.) Red Brains? Pink Brains? I'm certainly open for suggestion.
Again, I've come to the realization that no one switched my daughter at the hospital. This is all on me.