Rusty


This is Rusty. He joined our home a few weeks ago, when our friends Ashley and Sara moved out of town. They thought he belonged at our house because Eleanor also has a kickin’ mullet, so surely he would feel right at home. Of course when he first started hanging out he was just “Mullet Man.” Until recently.

A couple of days ago Eleanor was playing with zebra and Mullet Man. They were chatting it up on the coffee table when Eleanor abruptly walked over to me and said, “Rusty. That’s Rusty. That’s Rusty Moustache.”

Rusty, the real Rusty, is one of maybe three people Eleanor knows that actually has a moustache. He does has long-ish brown hair, but he does not have a mullet and I’ve never seen him in such an imposing position. But I can see the likeness, especially as Eleanor would see it. And while some might be a little embarrassed by this man being their namesake, I think it is one of the highest forms of flattery that Eleanor knows.

Yesterday Eleanor used the toilet, all on her volition, for both #1 and #2. It was a banner day here, and she was understandably proud of herself. About half an hour passed and I heard Eleanor calling to me, “Mommy. Look. Rusty go pee. Mommy. Mommy. Look”  I came into the living room (yes, that’s where the little plastic toilet was located) to see Rusty (again, not the real one) perched on the edge of the toilet seat. Eleanor was grinning. “Wow,” I said. “Look at you guys.”

“Okay Rusty.” Eleanor continued. “Time wash your hands Rusty. Wash hands Rusty.” And so they did. Eleanor brought a stool into the bathroom, turned on the water, and put soap in Rusty’s hands, helping him clean up after using the toilet.

I was beaming with pride.

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