Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,

Kissed the girls and made them cry.

When the boys came out to play,

Georgie Porgie went away.

The nursery rhyme was wrong. She had always listened to nursery rhymes–it took her years to figure out they weren’t actually meant to be moral tales or sources of infinite wisdom–but this one she knew was off. Georgie was a darling, a sweetheart, a turn-her-heart-to-oatmeal-mush angel. Sam was the overconfident pimple on the chin of life who stole her kisses and her heart and made her cry more times than she could count.

Georgie was her Little Boy Blue. He too cute for his own good, and he knew it well.

Sam was no Simple Simon. He was too smart for his own good, and he knew it well.

She didn’t care if Georgie made her miss breakfast because she was too busy playing with him to notice the pease porridge getting too hot, or the pat-a-cakes burning to a crisp.

She minded very much when Sam’s distractions made her hot-cross-buns blacken or her eggs turn green or the ham catch fire.

With Georgie she sang hush-a-bye baby and rocked him in her arms and loved every second.

With Sam she traded quotes and carried him home and couldn’t decide if she liked him or not.

Georgie was a monkey.

Sam was a weasel.

She gave Georgie mashed vegetables and creamed fruits and ended up with baby spit in her hair and lips tired from too many airplane sound effects and food just about everywhere but his mouth, but after all that she always asked to feed him anyway.

Sam was more of a heart-eater than a pumpkin eater, but after all she’d seen so far she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d imprison her in a pumpkin shell somehow.

She was proud to share a surname with little Georgie.

Her name wasn’t Mary, but just looking at Sam made her feel contrary.

She loved it when Georgie kissed her. He was six months old; baby kisses were always enjoyable, however sloppy. She didn’t mind applesauce on her cheek.

She hated it when Sam kissed her. He was seventeen and arrogantly sexy; he turned her willpower to dust and her insides to firecrackers. She minded very much, in fact, but he never seemed to listen.

The son of Jack was all too nimble, in both words and actions, but damned if she’d be his Jill. He’d already broken her heart; did he want to break her crown, too?

I do not like it here or there,

I do not like it anywhere.

I do not like it, Sam I Am,

I do not like green eggs and ham.