Summer, 2012

Logic Is A Wreath Of Pretty Flowers… That Smell Bad

"What a pretty puppy. Is this your puppy, sweetheart? What is his name?"

While I tried not to upchuck over the syrupy sweet voice coming from the old biddy in front of us, Lexi started with the last question—and a correction. "Her name is Contessa."

"What a pretty name for such a pretty puppy."

Puppy, hell, the dog was at least ten. But I guess all females are vain about their ages to some extent, because she wagged her tail and looked up with a pleasant expression.

"Contessa is a cow."

That stopped her in her tracks. "I beg your pardon?"

"Contessa is a cow," she repeated, enunciating more clearly.

She smiled a little more broadly. "No, sweetheart, I think she's a doggie."

Lexi got the patient look she gets when explaining to me that because she just talked to one of the extended family members in California, it must be three hours earlier than the clock says and she doesn't need to go to bed for another three hours. She's got the concept of time zones down; we just need to refine the data. "Cows eat grass," she said slowly and clearly. "Contessa eats grass. Contessa is a cow."

The woman mustered a smile and gave me a pitying look. "You poor dear," she murmured, "It must be difficult with a…damaged child," she whispered before scuttling away.

I stood in stunned silence for a moment. I followed Lexi's tugging hand back into the kitchen and absently said yes, since dinner wasn't for ages, she could have a snack (knowing full well that it wouldn't stop her from chowing down at afternoon tea with Mother). I left her with a peanut butter-banana-honey sandwich (proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is my child) and found Ducky in his "office" proofing an article he was submitting to American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology. I related the story—and he wasn't pissed. He was mildly amused, but primarily proud.

"Well, you must admit that—incorrect as the end conclusion may be—it was an excellent example of transitive logic. And she did that progression on her own!"

He sat up straighter, with a decidedly 'proud papa' look on his face, and I had to laugh. "I love you. You always put things back in the right perspective."

"Mooooommmmmeeee?"

"Come in here to ask!" I had already heard Victoria stirring in her room, so I didn't take her to task for bellowing through the house. I'm just as guilty.

She came in at a dead run and skittered to a stop. "Can I have a bag of pretzews?"

"May I," Ducky and I chorused.

She sighed and for a second had a look I would normally associate with a teenager and the word, 'Whatever.' "May I have a bag of pretzews?"

"No, that sandwich is enough. Grandma is getting up from her nap; after we get back, it will be time for tea."

Knowing that afternoon tea meant little sandwiches, cookies, éclairs and, of course, tea, she didn't quibble. "Okay."

"My Lexi!" Ducky leaned out of his chair to collect a bear hug.

"My Daddy!"

"Has anybody told you today what a smart little girl you are?" He bumped his forehead against hers.

She frowned; I could see the wheels turn, going over that whole Saturday. "No."

"Well, you are. Very, very smart."

"Okay," she said doubtfully. I knew she didn't doubt his assessment; it was more along the lines of, 'Duh, of course I am, why do we even need to discuss the issue?' "Are you coming with us?"

"If I finish my article. I have a deadline to meet."

She perked up. "What kiwwed it?"

He looked puzzled. "I'm sorry—killed what?"

"The dead wine. Is it at the Navy Yard? How do you kiww a wine?"

Ducky and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Lexi looked from Ducky to me then back. Despite her expectant look, we couldn't stop giggling and form a definition. (And it's hard to define 'deadline' to someone who doesn't even have homework.) Finally she gave up. Giving us a last, pathetic look, she headed for her grandmother's room, muttering, "Parents are weird," as she left.

Ducky looked up at me. "Definite Auntie Charlie influence." We started laughing all over again.