The hippopotamus in me.

We go a long way back. Hippopotamuses and me.

My parents were nurturing doubts about my mental growth when at age 4 the only story I wanted to hear was the one my dad had made up. This was also the time I wanted to be a boy. The story was called The Baby Hippopotamus.

There was once a baby hippopotamus, he was very naughty. He did not want to take a bath, but his mother would not listen to him. She washed him, and cleaned him. She made him wear nice clothes and she put powder behind his ears. And she put cream on his face. She combed his hair. She made him wear nice shoes. She told him to play carefully and not get dirty.*impish smile on little girl's face, yeah right*

The hippopotamus went to play out. He saw a puddle.*sparkle in little girl's eyes* The puddle was very dirty. The hippopotamus jumped into the puddle.*SPLASH* *HURRAY*

His mother would see him, scold him and clean him again.He would go and jump into the puddle again. This would go on and on and on, till I would go to sleep, a contented smile on my face. I got over the wanting-to-be-a-boy syndrome, but I still jump into puddles.

So when I read this story, it’s understandable that I feel warm in my tummy.