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.