If you weren’t a mom, you’d be a fresh pancake.
So my six-year-old son informs me this evening. The same one who sings: A+A=B! and D+M=4! The same one who has memorized my cell phone number and calls me at work to tell me his name is Alan. (Which it isn’t. Even remotely.)
I think he’s channeling Plath. I think she snuck growling into the house through the attic (or through Ariel, which is as good as any attic) and slunk invisibly down the loft ladder and possessed him while I was cooking.