Hobgoblin of little minds

Hodblogkins are in my sinuses with tiny sledgehammers, tapping, driving the golden stake, and hitting their own little thumbs. Tree pollen is high. Grass pollen is medium high. Wind is from SSE at 24 mph gusting to 34 mph.

It's been a bad day all around. Our newest preschool student hides in the restroom when she isn't making herself gag or shrieking about the terrible bunny rabbit. I feel a C-clamp squeezing on my skull.

Just getting past the trouble with the letter C s-s-s- making the k-k-k sound is a trip. Cluck! Again the trouble with my brain being switched with that of a chicken!  Settling Dad's estate has become far more problematic than I ever expected.


Lately I've been buying eggs from the farmer grandpa of a student for $3/dozen.  Love their look and the deviled eggs are to die for. And those tiny hammers are cracking the shells...

"A foolish consistency," according to Mr. Ralph Waldo in his Self-Reliance essay, is the real "hobgoblin of little minds".  Parental inconsistency is the biggest problem facing preschoolers. Self-reliant is what our kids need to become. Tough enough to peel the shell off a hard-boiled egg all by themselves!

On the first date I ever had in my whole life the guy try to get past first base by claiming to adore Emerson's Over-Soul essay.  Unlike Barbra Steisand's Judy/Burnsie in What's Up, Doc? I did not adore anyone who adored Emerson that much:

Mr. Larrabee: I must point out that "foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

Judy: Emerson!

Mr. Larrabee: I beg your pardon my dear?

Judy: Ralph Waldo Emerson, born 1803, died 1882.

Mr. Larrabee: You like Emerson?

Judy: I adore him!

Mr. Larrabee: I adore anyone who adores Emerson.

Judy: And I adore anyone who adores anyone who adores Emerson. Your turn.

And now, back to reading Thomas Mallon's Watergate with a lengthy cast of cracked eggs and hobgoblins.  Dad followed the downfall of  his "Tricky Dick" with such concentration that I couldn't skip this novel.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder