Wandering into the kitchen the other day, I caught sight of Diva in the living room.
She was doing the Twist.
Yes, yes she was.
And I commented on it.
She protested, loudly, that she wasn’t doing The Twist, it was merely a…foot shuffle. Yeah, that’s it, a foot shuffle.
I smirked at her, and pointed out that the difference between her ‘foot shuffle’ and The Twist was nothing.
Diva being Diva then flopped on her back on the couch, trying to hide a smile while bemoaning her life. “I hate my liiiiiiife!” she whined, throwing an arm up across her eyes.
Terror Toddler had been watching this event with grave interest. Especially how, when Diva put her arm over her eyes, a patch of skin on her belly was bared.
Creeping stealthily forward, he pursed his lips, about to blow a raspberry on her belly. Unfortunately for him, Diva sensed his presence before he could complete his mission.
So, Terror Toddler, being the sweet and loving child he is, clambered up, chattering away at her. He leaned into her face, smiling his sweet smile…
And blew a raspberry in her face.
She howled about how she hated her life, while wiping spit from her eye, and laughing.
And protesting, still, that she hadn’t been doing the Twist.
(Yes, yes she was)