That's Hobo with a B

Giddy thought the stuff from Goodwill smelled mighty suspicious.

My daughter became a hobo today. She didn't know what a hobo was, so I explained to her that's it's someone who has no home (although I guess there's also a connotation that a hobo is sort of a purposeful vagabond, a lovable character even . . . but I didn't go there). She was playing the part of the train-hopping hobo in a Christmas play at church. The children were performing "An Orange for Frankie," based on a book by Patricia Polacco.

Let me tell you, it was a hard sell. I spun it as a "won't it be fun to wear a costume" sort of adventure, but she saw it a bit differently. A lot differently, in fact. She has worn only dresses for almost two years now. I went to Goodwill and picked up some overalls, a red shirt, a red bandanna, and some gloves (I cut off the tips of the fingers - very clever, ne c'est pas?). I bought these items in the boys' section. If my daughter knew this little fact, I seriously think she would experience a psychotic break and never be the same again. I thought of taking a bit of soot from the fireplace and smudging her cheek with it but I knew it would never fly.

The pre-k kids are cast mostly as extras in these annual performances, so A didn't have any lines or anything. She wandered around the stage and sat in a painted train when directed to do so. Eventually she left the stage altogether and sat on her dad's lap for the remainder of the play. She was a cute hobo, but the cuteness was short-lived. She demanded to change into a dress as soon as we got home.

After church, we made cut-out cookies. I rolled out the dough and cut the shapes, and the kid decorated them. And by decorate, I mean that she poured enough sprinkles on each one to choke a horse. Fa la la la la!

Yes, Virginia, there is a cookie under that mound of festive red sprinkles.