Julie had an appointment with her doctor today, and apparently the cervix door is letting in a slight, slight breeze. So if someone rings the womb's doorbell, the little man can look out the peephole to make sure it's not the FBI or something.
Gag.
On another subject (you're welcome), I'm trying to teach Lyla about cool music. I don't want her to be a lost cause like her mother.
"Julie, I'll give you a hundred dollars if you can name this band."
"Uh...Barenaked Ladies?"
"It's Led Zeppelin."
See?
"Lyla, this is the Beatles."
"Bee-toes."
"Yes. Paul is singing this song to his friend John's son Julian. Only he calls him Jude."
"Dude. Sin it, Dada."
I warbled along for a few bars.
"No more sinning, Dada. No sin Hey Dude!"
"Okay, okay."
"Oh-tay! Sin it, Dada."
"You want me to sing it again?"
"Sin it."
"Na na na na...Heeey Jude."
"No sin Hey Dude!"
"Don't sing it? Fine, be that way."
"Sin it right now, Dada."
"Do you want me to sing it, or not sing it?"
"Yeah."
"Whatever, dude. You're fickle."
"No evah dude. Hey dude."
"Heeey Jude."
"No sinning!"
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