During today’s luncheon of half-frozen blueberries fresh from Grandma Sandy’s freezer, my 7-year-old boy comments —-
“Mama, I remember that once I poo-ed out blueberries. They shot out like my butt was a water gun.”
A brief pause. “Or a blueberry gun,” he amended.
If ever there was an opportunity to teach a 7-year-old boy about imagery, this was it. I let it pass.
The opportunity, that is. Not the blueberries.
Prairie Sings 