Bimbo Nebo

The 15-minute drive to and from daycare is where Scout and I often get some serious talking done. She'll plead for me to recite an animated Sesame Street clip in which a gorilla with a penchant for the letter G looks for a job at an employment agency. And I comply, repeatedly. I plead to her to keep her boots and socks on; she refuses, daily. I ask about her day. We scour the streets for buses and 'diggers' (any type of construction equipment). This week's conversation revolves around who can shout HELLO the loudest – easier done in winter with the windows rolled up.

Scout hit me with a knuckleball yesterday that took the duration of our commute home to untangle. At a red light, while glancing up at an idling bus beside us, she spoke thusly: BEE EMBO NEBO. 

A second time. And again. Once more, this time a questioning tone. She's burning a hole in the back of the headrest. I need to say something. Seconds tick by. I try my best. I turn it back on her: "Nebo?" Smooth one, Dad.

NEBO. BEE EMBO NEBO. She begins to repeat it, in a sing-songy way. BEE EM BEE O! BIMBO NEEEBO!

Traffic is molasses on Portage; I'm aching to get home. She's rolling over the line like it's gospel. It strikes me, with moments left before reaching the house. Bingo Was His Name-O. I sing the line to her.

YEAH, she says. AGAIN.