Chart Number 161

March 6, 2015

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

Last week Six brought her pillow pet to me for a repair job. The flat panda had a small hole in its upper right corner right where the seams met. I’m definitely no seamstress, but I can fix easy things like this.

I took out my little sewing box and threaded a needle with black thread. As Six practiced her guitar I listened and worked on the panda. After a few minutes I finished fixing the seam; when Six finished practicing I showed her the pillow pet.

Six thanked me for fixing the panda and then looked at my sewing box. It’s a fun little container; it has a swinging handle and is blue with pink roses. The kids like looking inside it every time I take it out to fix something. I guess, because I sew so infrequently, they find the entire thing fascinating.

I didn’t know just how fascinating until Six came to me shortly after I’d fixed the panda.

“You know, Mamma, when you, um, pass away and stuff, I’m going to keep your sewing box.”

“What?” I said, incredulous. “Why do you have to kill me off?”

“No offense,” she added, as if that would make everything better.

“You know, you can have the sewing box before I die,” I told her. “When you grow up, I’ll just give it to you.”

Honestly. I figured if the kids would have an eye on anything it would be something more pricey, like the expensive earrings I have. Not a sewing box.


The girls have reached an interesting age. They spend quite a bit of time bickering, but they also have begun to understand how to joke around and tease one another to great effect.

One day as I cut Six’s nails in the master bathroom, Eight sat on our bed and teased Six about something. Six made a face, clearly unhappy about her sister’s jibes.

“What about when you tease people?” I asked her gently, trying to remind her that she does tease all of us occasionally.

“I don’t tease people, I’m just funny,” she told me.

Well then. Enough said.


Because my sister-in-law enjoys lavishing the kids with presents for the holidays I’ve taken to pulling the gifts out on a staggered schedule. The most recent addition to the game closet is “Don’t Make Me Laugh”.  Contrary to the title, the game rules actually encourage participants to laugh. The louder and longer, the better.

(I feel like the title kind of has nothing to do with the game in this regard, but that’s okay.)

According to the rules each of us had to draw a card from a particular pile and act out the suggestion on the card. After three or four rounds of the game, the girls and I had a serious case of the giggles. We’d shared laughing tears more than once, and when Six pulled a card that instructed her to make a speech as if she were the president of the country I knew the result would be priceless.

It was. Just not the way I expected.

Six decided on the spur of the moment to make her debut as a president who speaks in a monstrous roar. She greeted her constituents with arms raised in a threatening manner and a loud voice.

Eight’s arm shot in the air.

“I’m moving to India!” she declared.

With that she dashed out the room and down the hall. And I literally rolled on the floor laughing.


Eight has become more adept at puns.

A couple of Sundays ago Six went to a birthday party and Eight and I went out to lunch together. We stopped at Subway, and these days the kids’ meals at Subway come with a Disney bag and a little puzzle. The back of the puzzle announces to kids that they can watch the latest Mickey “shorts” on Disney Junior.

“I want to see Mickey shorts,” she said, looking at the puzzle.

“What?” I asked. “You want to watch Mickey’s shorts? Why? That seems really boring.”

“Mamma,” she said with a grin. “Not Mickey’s shorts, Mickey shorts.”

“That seems kind of boring to watch Mickey’s shorts,” I said.

She just shook her head; a few days later she tossed a pun back in my direction.

After dropping Six at school Eight and I chatted about the latest dump of snow, and she complained about it.

“Just be glad we’re not in Boston,” I said.

She asked why, and I told her about Boston’s weather woes. Eight said if she’d lived in Boston during this winter she would have moved, and I explained that some people in the news had said they would do just that.

“That means the city would be deserted,” she said.

“Well, I don’t think everyone would leave,” I said.

“And if it was deserted, it would be full of big cookies and big bowls of ice cream and sprinkles and big spoons,” she said.

Admittedly it took me a minute to figure out the source of the pun: she was using “deserted” as “dessert-ed”.

Boy, this kid’s good.

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