Last night, I was on the phone with my dad and Indy was watching Bubble Guppies, and Kendrick came charging into the living room:
“There is a huge turtle sitting in our front yard.”
That is a sentence that you don’t hear when you grow up on 46th Street and 10th Avenue. Ever.
I did have a turtle when I was little, actually. I found him at our friend’s lake house upstate, named him Sammy (many of the pets I had when I was little were named “Sammy”), and brought him home for a summer before releasing him back into the lake when September rolled around.
Anyway, here’s how the conversation went last night:
Me: “OH MY GOD A TURTLE CAN WE NAME HIM SAMMY AND KEEP HIM?”
Kendrick: “…No.”
And so the evening, exciting as it was, came to a close with a stroll down to the lake near our house, where we left Sammy II sitting on a rock with a little snack of leaves.
I miss him already.
And I am so excited that this is where our son gets to spend his childhood: in a place where turtles just wander right on into your yard, just because.
