Holy Hell, Shat Down!, I Repeat, Shat Down!
We’ve never been the kind of parents who buy our kids random things they fetish when perusing through the grocery store or are accosted with at the airport. BUT, in rare form, we decided to indulge them on our recent trip to Borneo. Low and behold, Denali chose a tractor plow (or at least that’s what I called it), which was actually fairly badass (as pictured above). Well, the little guy is still figuring out his words and as such, they often come out as variants of themselves. Thus, truck (tractor) equals, or should I say, equaled, shat, which also came out sometimes as shart (and made it even more funny, though, both forms sounded like he was saying shit, which made it awesome either way). For 48 hours, he carried that damn shat around with him everywhere and when he didn’t have it, he was talking about it. Through caves it came, into boats it went. That was up until the fateful event in which the shat was lost forever.
We were eating dinner by a river and he was playing with the shat on a ledge by our table. One thing led to another and down went the shat!, bouncing off of the concrete path below, barreling over rocks to finally find its end in the depths of the Mulu River. When the screaming began, I wish I could say that my first reaction was sympathy, but it wasn’t. BECAUSE my child was screaming “SHAT!!!”, “SHAAATTT!”.
It was hilarious. Then it was sad. And then we mourned the loss of our dear shat.