Ich liebe dich, Gustav

Sometimes Paige turns into a small German boy named Gustav.

Never quite sure when it’ll happen. She might be shoving mac and cheese into her gob with both hands and you get an angle on her neck that’s all fatty fat chin. Gustav!

Or she lets loose a machine gun round of farts when she’s in her highchair. Off that plastic seat those toots ricochet good, making nice loud blasts. Total Gustav move.

Or, I don’t know. Maybe she’s just sitting up on the rug and nodding her head up and down vigorously in some weird rhythmic affirmation of something or other that’s not exactly clear.

I mean, anything you could imagine a rotund blond German boy wearing lederhosen and oafish, square-toed, crepe-soled shoes doing qualifies for (but isn’t always necessarily) Gustav-like behavior.

And sometimes it’s just not that clear cut. Gustav isn’t a person per se, he’s more of a, well, state of mind. A spirit if you will. Something—or someone—that can be there one second, then vanish faster than a Top Dog bockwurst.

Although I was the first to identify Gustav, Mark eventually came around to tapping into his presence. Inevitably though, whenever either of us sense we’re in his midst and cry out his name, Kate skyrockets into a “She’s NOT Gustav! SHE’S MY SISTER, PAAAAAAAAIGE!!!” freak-out.

Whatever.

Until he’s goose-stepping around the house or something I don’t really think we have anything to worry about.