The title refers to a favorite preschool song that my children currently adore. They sing it constantly. My three and four year olds know it well enough to sing it all by themselves.
At once a blessing and a curse.
Sure, I no longer have to lead a motion-filled rousing rendition of the savory sounding song, but I do have to listen to it. Usually while driving the minivan, which seems to get mini-er and mini-er with each passing verse. And you guessed it, each verse (at least five, often, many, many more) gets louder and more boisterous than the last.
Fellow road warriors are often treated to a performance renewed at each red light. Fellow shoppers initially smile until they realize my children’s penchant for singing outlasts their own resolve to be good natured about the soulful racket.
I know I should cherish these times.
After all, it won’t be long until the sizzling quintuplet will be replaced with songs with shrill instruments and a baseline deep enough for the neighborhood to hear. Heaven Forbid. But really, twenty six verses of “Five Fat Sausages” can leave a person, well, fried.