The Fredösphere

Both my kids love to improvise songs -- words and tunes.  Monday night I was walking with both in hand, and they were simultaneously riffing.

I don't remember ever doing that.  The Maharincess of Fredistan especially is in love with the sound of her own voice.  She specializes in pure fluency, unencumbered by any pedantic commitment to things like syntax or semantics.  That is not my style.  I prefer to hold off from doing anything until I understand everything.  Naturally, this is a recipe for paralysis.

This morning, she sang another original composition.  She is just shy of her third birthday and still in a state of noble savagery; soon civilization will crush the beautiful expressive freedom she has.  The words seemed to come from a place deep within the core of her being.  She sang this cri de coeur:

Poopy, Poopy,
Poopy poopy poopy.
Poopy, Poopy,
Poopy poopy poopy.