“I’m a horsey named Mozie.  She died, but I am Mozie now.”  You were wearing a costume.  A likeness of Mozie.  You told the lady at the market, the guy at the coffee shop and the man at the car service dock.  “I ride Tony the mule, but I am a horsie named Mozie.”  The costume came from the used kids clothes store.  I picked it up and handed it over last week.  Not sure if you’d like it.  You do. “Ryan, you say.  That’s my boy name.”

You have been wearing your costume since you got it last week.  You are a horse.  Pull it on, zip it up, pull up the hood and whinnie.  It is horse boy.

We stopped at the post office, the feed store and then for an oil change, Mr. Horsie.  Mozie.  You gallop[ed into the store and asked for food for your polly wogs.  They want to be frogs, you said.  I’m a horse.  I like to ride Tony the mule. This is good hay, grandma.  You decided.  We got 40 bales.

At the car repair we bought our coffee, hot chocolate and blueberry muffins and sat at the table in the waiting room.  Watch those hooves, buddy.  Oh, dear.  Chocolate milk everywhere.  Splash, splat, splatter and slip in under the glass table top in that flat puddle that forms under glass.  Have a rag, mam? I asked. Sticky stuff everywhere.  Sorry gma.  I have to go potty.  So we do.  But your hand sticks in the horsey costume.  Your hoof doesn’t guide the pee.  Oh dear.  As you try it sprays to the left, right and all over.  UGH.  The bathroom is a mess.  Like the hot chocolate.  Horses are messy.  So are kids.

At home you tell grandpa that you want to ride barrels with Tony.  Go fast and around the barrels.  Okay says Grandpa, good idea.  Maybe we should practice keeping the pee directed at the potty first, or the hot chocolate in the cup. Funny Grandpa.  gma