As a hestitant dawn breaks through our curtains, the sound of large, soggy raspberries echoes down across the landing from Maddie's room. She's awake, she's bored and she's blowing raspberries like there's no tomorrow. Bloody hilarious.
I promise, promise, promise I did not teach her how to do this, leading me to the only possible conclusion - we are genetically hard-wired to perform slapstick comedy. It's in our DNA. It's inherited intelligence. It's nature, and nurture can shove off.
Oops. Another raspberry is getting blown to my right so I'd better get back to making stuffed animals squeek.
