Overheard: A young girl talking to her mother at the V. Sattui winery picnic grounds in Napa, California (one valley over from where I live), last weekend…
“They call it the happiest place on earth, but it’s not. That princess-lady yelled at me for nothing.”
The girl’s mother reminded her that, in Disneyland at least, throwing a drink at her brother on a crowded sidewalk isn’t actually “nothing.” The girl paused, nibbled on a cookie, then huffed:
“Well, who made her the boss of that stuff anyway? She probably isn’t even a real princess.”
Five year-old Tamara, decked out in her Christmas finery– pink tutu, pink tights, pink cowboy boots, pink tiara, and a pink Hello Kitty backpack–when I asked her to name her favorite color.
Photo credit: Pink Sherbet Photography
Better than a cartoon cat…
“Boy-guys get man ones.”
…said wild-haired Liam, a wadded cotton-ball sticking out of his infected ear, as he firmly rejected my offer of a Hello Kitty sticker.
Bob the Builder, complete with hardhat, hammer, and a wheelbarrow-load of bricks–about as manly as they get in three year-old sticker-world–was happily accepted in Kitty’s place.
Photo credit: l.bailey_beverley
Ghost, in happier times…
“This is so sad.”
Ghost, age unknown (but about 4 feet tall), soaking wet on my front porch on the wettest Halloween in memory.
Photo credit: wallygrom
“So that makes me the B-section.”
Will, age 6, explaining that since his newborn brother was born by C-section, his big sister must have been an A-section, which logically left him in the alphabetical middle of the birth order.
* * *
Photo by estoril
Regular readers of this blog know I love to ask little kids how they got hurt, or why they got sick, etc. They usually have interesting stories to tell:
Henry, just turned 4 years old, comes to my office with a scraped-up knee courtesy of a fall from a deck (or so his mother alleged):
Me: “So, Henry, what happened to your knee?”
Henry, bravely: “A tiger shark bit me in the bath tub.”
Why kids hate bath night… (Photo by Emerille)
Me: “A tiger shark?”
Henry, startled by my poor shark knowledge: “That’s the only kind that goes in bath tubs, buddy.”
Henry’s mom (no doubt overcome by maternal guilt): “Where was I when the shark bit you?”
Henry: “You were peeing on your potty. But you were asleep.”
Me: “How did you make the shark go away?”
Henry: “I told him nice sharks eat dog food and he went to go find some.”
(The scene closes with Henry doing some kind of hula-like dance, chanting “Down the drain, down the drain, down the drain…”)
Seth’s birthday party
“Did you like my party?”
Seth, just turned 5 years old, on hearing me talk about this year’s Fourth of July fireworks with his mother. An Independence Day baby, Seth hasn’t quite caught on yet that the rockets’ red glare isn’t all about him.
Because it’s there…
Brandon is twelve years old, and not a regular patient of mine. By chance, I’ve seen him three times in the last six months while working the weekend urgent care clinic, each time for injuries–all the result of some daredevil thing or another gone wrong.
This time Brandon had sprained his ankle jumping off his garage roof–something he does often because, well, “I like to jump off the garage roof.” ‘Nuf sed.
As Brandon tried out his crutches I tried to put in a pitch for toning down the mayhem, hoping he’d connect the dots, say, between riding a bike without brakes and the head injury he’d suffered a couple of months ago. Or the wrist he’d broken before that in a light-saber/baseball bat duel with a friend.
Me: “So, do you see a pattern in all this?”
Brandon: “Yeah. How come you’re always here when I hurt myself? I’m starting to think you’re bad luck.”
“It sounds like buffaloes dancing.”
Muriel, 5, on listening to her own heartbeat with my stethoscope.
Falling down the stairs together...
Regular readers of this blog know that I love to ask little kids how they hurt themselves, or what they think made them sick. The answers are often funny, sometimes poignant, and they offer a window into what how little minds tick.
I had an interesting visit this week with Theo, a 3 year-old with an injured hand. When I asked him how he hurt himself he said:
“I pushed me down the steps, then I pushed me again, and then I got hurt.”
Actual story: Theo got pushed down the steps (accidentally, and once, not twice) by his identical twin brother Aaron. His mother told me that they always refer to themselves as “I”, never “we,” whether the matter at hand involves one or both of the twins. Basically, they’re inseparable, and very sensitive to each other’s pains. Aaron (the uninjured twin) spent Theo’s entire visit in my office complaining that his hand hurt, too.
Twins are fascinating. Any readers out there with twin stories you’d like to share?