Still wobbly-legged with relief and feeling like someone who has just dodged a hailstorm of bullets. It seems slightly unreal to just go back to cute kid stories, but that's why I'm here, right?
This is what happened this morning:
(Background: I am a little bit of an, um, eclectic dresser. I don't pay much attention to what I wear and do not stop to think, say, what color my tichel and shoes are before putting on a purple raincoat, a bright pink backpack, and multicolored gloves made of sock yarn. Sometimes the tichel is orange with sparkly stripes and the shoes are light blue and the socks are... oh, well, you get the picture. I tend to be pretty colorful, and most of the other immas and mommies around here tend to wear an awful lot of black.)
This morning I came into the kitchen wearing a black Parkhurst beret, for no reason other than that it was on the top of my tichel drawer. Midway through breakfast-cooking (I made scrambled eggs) Barak noticed this.
"Imma, why are you wearing a hat?"
"You mean, why do I wear a hat, or why am I wearing a hat and not a tichel today?"
"Why are you wearing a hat and not a tichel today?"
"I don't know. It was the closest thing to my hand. Do you like it or do you not like it?"
"I don't like it."
"I think it's not so pretty."
"Why isn't it pretty?"
"It's just black. I think a tichel is more prettier than that."
"Black hats aren't pretty?"
"No. They're just boring. I think you should wear a tichel."
"Okay. Go find a tichel in my drawer and I'll change."
He ran and got me a long pink stripey tichel, which I put on. He looked pleased.
"Is that better?"
"Yeah. That's much more prettier than just black."
Personally, I agree with him.