You remind me of the Walking Dead.
No, don’t laugh. I mean it.
It’s something about the way that you lunge toward me on all fours, your eyes fixed with determination; the way that you shout at me as you approach, before your yells are drowned out by your lips sinking against my skin.
You are like zombies. Little zombies.
And it makes me laugh a bit, it does, but also shudder because children, the Walking Dead scares the life out of me. I can’t watch it. I sat through a few episodes to be polite to my lovely mother-in-law once because I was worried that I might offend her if I did what I wanted to do, which was hide under a duvet until the eating of people was over, and I had nightmares for weeks. And now here are you coming after me with your toothless gums shining and my goodness, are you fast.
It’s another surreal parenting moment for me. When I was daydreaming about being a mother, never in a single fantasy would my precious cherubs remind me of zombies.
And yet somehow you do.
My funny, freaky, favourite little people.