I'm writing about it a day later because when she got home last night, NJ wasn't too upset about it (anymore, that is -- lately she's really stepped up her game in the tantrum department, so I'm guessing the accident scene was something else) and I couldn't get any decent photos of it. All I got was a bunch like this:
You haven't seen the last of me, toy stove. I'll be back!
I'm sure the first thing you thought of is the first thing I thought of, too: Will NJ have a scar on her lip like Paul McCartney's? You know, the one that popped up after he had a moped accident? The one that was used as evidence by some that the 'real' Paul had died in a car crash and been replaced in the Beatles by a 'fake' Paul? Alas: Although it's on the right side, Macca's scar is on his upper lip, so it's not quite the same.
Fat lip? What fat lip? It's all seashells and balloons over here!
Even though he's second to last on my list of favorite Beatles (sorry, Ringo), Macca has a special place in my relationship with NJ. The story about why this song is a vitally important cog in our father-daughter relationship is too long, explainy and relentlessly sappy to sum up in a sentence here -- it deserves its own post, at some point. But every time it pops up randomly on the iPod we hold an impromptu Dancing, Smiling, Laughing, Hugging Festival. In fact, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to play that video and we're going to have a DSLH Fest right now.
I want to fill the world with silly love songs, and you can't stop me because I have Beatle Immunity. Go on, look it up.