Dingo Snack

My best friend, from sixth grade on, E1 just sent me pictures of her son Finnegan. She sends groups of pictures to an email list about every three months because she is a good mom and Finnegan, he's a cutey.

His name is not really Finnegan . . . and I'm the only person in the world who refers to him as Finnegan, which I'm sure will cause some sort of psychological damage. But really, what doesn't? His parents went on and on at their wedding about how they met in the Finnegan's Wake class in grad school and so I decided on his name before he was even conceived. He should just thank his lucky stars that he isn't a girl (pseudo-named Finnegan) and that he lives in a completely different state so he doesn't have to put up with me often. He doesn't look a thing like the sock puppet. And he can't tell the difference between me and his aunt . . . so she may get all the blame.

But speaking of psychological damage, in this last round of pictures, Finnegan is dressed in a bright red shirt proclaiming him as a "Dingo Snack". As in "The Dingo . . . it ate my baby" with Meryl Streep sobbing. Dingo Snack. Labelling your child as a wild dog treat. That's just asking for trouble.

So of course, I had to give E1 (who is a good mother and does try to do everything right) shit about dressing her son as a foodstuff. She got really serious . . . "yeah, we have to be really careful about where we wear that shirt. We don't wear it to the playground. We can only wear it if we're sure people will get the joke." I love that her two year old already has outfits that he can only wear in certain places . . . to certain parties or occasions. I bet it's going to be more old when he's thirteen and wearing fishnet shirts and black lipstick.

Turns out the aunt that I'm interchangable with . . . she gave him the shirt.

Here's the link in case you need one for the little Finnegans in your life.