The Munch really likes when I tell her stories of my childhood, and especially wants to hear adventures with my brother, her Uncle Laszlo. Yet you would think she would be a passive participant in this process, and enjoy the narrative without interruption. Not my child. The Munch is like an elitist historian who has no problem revising the facts and interjecting opinions to sculpt a version she can approve of.
This is the tale of “Toni and Uncle Laszlo in the bath” she makes me tell every night before bed.
Toni: “Once upon a time when Mamma was a little girl…”
Munch: “No! Mamma was a baby!”
Toni: “Okay fine, when Mamma was a baby…. She was taking a bath with Uncle Laszlo.”
Munch: “And Uncle Laszlo was not wearing his shoes.”
Toni: “Right. So Mamma and Uncle Laszlo were in the bath and they were having so much fun. They were laughing, and playing, and singing…”
Munch: “But they weren’t singing Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
Toni: “No. So then, baby Mamma saw something floating towards her. And she thought… ‘what is that? Is it a rubber ducky? No… Is it a bar of soap? No… Is it a washcloth? No… Its poops!!!’ Uncle Laszlo had pooped in the bath!”
Munch: “No Uncle Laszlo didn’t poop in the bath!”
Toni: “Munch, I am pretty sure he did, otherwise this would be a kind of a lame story.”
Munch: “No he didn’t poop in the bath!! MAMMA POOPED IN THE BATH!”
Toni: “No Munch. Mamma didn’t poop in that bath. Mamma is a lady!”
Munch: “MAMMA DID POOP IN THE BATH! And Uncle Laszlo was crying. And he said ‘Don’t poop in the bath anymore.’ And then he had so many tears. But he didn’t get soap in his eyes. And he didn’t wash his hair. And there where three bubbles. One, two, three. And they were so high. And they were tiny tiny tiny tiny tiny. But they tasted like candy. No sugar. No ice cream. And he ate them all up. Uncle Laszlo wasn’t crying any more.
Toni: “Wow Munch – that is a really good story. I think that was exactly what happened.”