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Privacy (A Conversation with Molly)

Just before Molly fell ill with the flu she took her Pony out for French pastry and a coffee. (do not be alarmed she's drinking warm milk)

Just before Molly fell ill with the flu she took her Pony out for French pastry and a coffee. (do not be alarmed she’s drinking warm milk)

 

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?

Molly:

Me:

Molly: (shrugs)

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.