Early every morning, clad only in his diaper, my Hatchling
demands I shoe him in his spiffy new Elmo tennis shoes. It's quite a site to behold.

Laughing. Hysterically. And dancing. Oh, the dancing. Hatchling
twirls and pirouettes (in a manly sort of way, of course) until he starts laughing, then he falls to the floor. I don't personally get the humor of the Sesame Street bit 'Elmo's World', but then I haven't been cool for many, many years now.

Mama, Elmo! This is what I hear as we stroll through my favorite
craft emporium. Knowing, with the innately correct knowledge that motherhood gives one, that there is no Elmo here, in my wolrd, I ignore the outburst. Suddenly, a violent pulling on my shirt accompanied by Hatchling practically shouting "MaMA, ElMO!" (he puts the emphasis on the last syllable of his words for some reason...). Looking around, I spy a teeny tiny Elmo head hanging among 150,000 other items, just waiting to be hot- ironed onto something delightful.

Oh what joy one furry little red monster can bring to my toddler.