Damn Dirty Apes

The final prompt for NaBloPoMo:

Tell us one memorable moment from August.

Oh, I have one.

I’ll be writing soon about school; Abby started pre-k this week. But this little anecdote can’t wait any longer.

We picked her up from her second day. After I got her buckled in and we left the parking lot, I took her purple folder from her Frozen backpack.

I noticed a new addition: a sheet of paper with two monkeys at the top was taped to the front, Abby’s name clearly printed in the middle. This was an upgrade from the smaller name markered on the top right corner.

“Oh, look at this!” I exclaimed, trying to be upbeat even though pre-k is the saddest thing ever. It’s hard, y’all.

I turned to look at Abby in her booster seat. She crossed her arms and made a stern, grumpy face. Totes adorbs.

“I hate monkeys,” she declared, in an odd but effective mixture of deadpan vehemence.

I wish I could type in her tone of voice. The emotion ran much deeper than the average I hate you proclamation that follows being sent to the corner, yet was nearly as flippantly casual as an average I hate Brussels sprouts type of comment.

It was utterly priceless.

Ian and I could not contain our mirth for a few seconds. After we regained our composure, Ian suggested that we remove the offensive primate label.

“My teacher said don’t take it off.”

I had to give Ian the stink-eye. I know what a challenge sounds like to him.

We agreed to just not look at the stupid monkeys.

I hate monkeys has become our latest catchphrase.

Good times.