Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Here we are, ready to defend ourselves against the dreaded gripe.
I never gripe, so what is all the fuss about?
Well, I won’t comment on that, but it is not the gripe as in “to complain,“ it’s la gripe, the Spanish word for flu. Dad’s been down with it and Mom is taking protective measures, so I thought it would be best to be prepared with a box of Sudafed, just in case.
So, what’s the flu? I don’t know about such things.
Well, another of the many advantages of being fuzzy kids is that we seem to be protected from many difficulties that humans face. I guess the flu must be one of those difficulties. At least Dad has been complaining a lot (hmm, I wonder if that is what the gripe is all about?) for the past day.
Well, Mom is complaining too. Something about her work I think--she's editing her manuscript on the French Chemin. Does that mean she is getting the dreaded gripe?
Let’s all hope not. We need someone around here who is able to do things like cook and shop. If they both got sick we’d have to take over and that would not be easy. Take your vitamins, Mom and hang in there. We are depending on you.
Yeah. Yesterday Mom went out in the morning and the whole world was frosty! Dad says it’s called “hoarfrost.”
Watch your language!
What did I say?
You know very well.
Hey kids—it’s spelled differently than you think.
I never was much good at spelling.
And although we didn’t get to go with them, Dad’s photo-shopped us into the scene so you can imagine us there.
Thanks Dad, but I’d really rather have been there.
You would have frozen your tusch sitting on that park bench, Brown Bear.
What's a tusch?
The part you sit on. I think it's time to sign out and take care of Mom's gripe and my gripe....