Hopefully there won't be any lasting damage, but I have a new rhyme/song for Quinn that seems to amuse her:
10 babies on a log, Lookin' over the bog
In comes the fog, up comes a 'gator
Uh-oh baby, see you later!
And then it repeats, à al "
99 Bottles of Beer," subtracting one baby each time until we're down to "No more babies on a log ..." Usually, I'm laying on my back with my legs crossed and Quinn is sitting on the leg that's parallel to the ground. Sometimes she looks worried; other times she's giggly about it.
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