Me: (tucking a sick Molly MaGoo into the sofa) I all better, mama!
Me: You are? Then convince your upset stomach of that, please.
Molly: I vomit in the elevator.
Me: You did, indeed.
Molly: All over papa.
Me: True story.
Molly: I vomit in the bucket.
Me: With perfect aim! We should sign you up for archery!
Molly: I all better, mama.
Me: (sigh) Well, that is a relief.
Molly: (looking out the window) Where the sun, mama? Where the sun go?
Me: (looking out the window to see the sun dipped behind a row of menacing, rain saturated clouds) Amália, how do you think the sun takes a shower?
Molly: I dono.
Me: What do you do when you need privacy?
Me: You close the door. Does the sun have a door?
Molly: (puzzled) No?
Me: That is right. There are no doors in the sky so the sun relies on the clouds to give him a bit of a break. When a cloud passes in front of the sun he takes the opportunity to relax, wash his dishes, tidy his living room and make himself a cup of tea.
Molly: Oh yes!
Me: Often he takes a shower, gets dressed, hangs his laundry out to dry.
Molly: E faz xixi (and pee)?
Me: Claro (of course)! And on especially rainy days the sun stays in his pajamas with a good book and reads and reads and reads while the clouds fill our rivers and streams and water our gardens and make puddles for ducks.
Molly: (to the window, whispers) Mama, the sun is pooping. (nodding)
Me: Then we better give him some space! No one likes to poop with an audience.
Molly: Yah. Sun poops alone.