Beware of kids with blocks...
“The kids at preschool hit me in the face with blocks and broke my nose.”
Danny, just turned 4, telling me where it hurts. His mother seems a bit surprised at this, as Danny actually has a sore throat and a fever. Minus the river of snot running out of it, his nose looks pretty good.
Danny listens to his mom’s version of the story, then stares at her in disbelief.
“First my nose got broke, Mom. Then my throat hurt.”
He crosses his arms, closes his eyes, shakes his head.
“She never tells it right.”
“It was Angry Birds and Waldo and bloody, bloody, bloody.”
3 year-old Wesley’s capsule summary of how he got the gash on his forehead. His mother elaborated: Wesley tried to pull an ‘Angry Birds’ stuffed toy away from Waldo, the cat. When Waldo suddenly let go, Wesley went tumbling down the front steps.
Wesley’s sore-headed reply, when asked if he’d learned any lessons from his encounter with Waldo.
“Because it was dark and I was tired.”
Gerald, 8 years old, explaining how he came to be wearing his twin sister’s Strawberry Shortcake underwear to his physical, and why, as a result, he would not be taking off his pants.
So much for the Children's Museum...
“The pole dancers.”
10 year-old Trey, when I asked him what his favorite part of his family’s holiday trip to Las Vegas had been.
After Trey’s mother red-facedly explained that they had accidentally cut through the “wrong” entrance to their hotel after the evening entertainment had already begun, she asked him if he’d maybe like to tell me about something else he liked? Maybe the roller coaster? The Egyptian stuff? The all-you-can-eat buffets?
“Nope. Just the pole dancers.”
“I don’t think I can poop that far.”
Alondra, 6 years old and constipated, when told by her mother she’d have to “go longer” when she goes number two in order to fix her tummy ache.
Don't do this.
Saw two Wii injuries in the urgent care clinic on Sunday.
1) The first was an 8 year-old boy who slipped on a towel while playing Wii basketball, fell backwards and sprained his wrist.
Me (brimming with sage advice): “How are you going to stay safe next time you play Wii?”
Boy: “A bike helmet?”
2) Second injury: 5 year-old loses control of Wii wand while bowling, sails it across the room and clocks his 10 year-old brother in the eybrow, opening a small but bloody cut. This follows by a couple of months a bike accident in which the younger brother dashed in front of the older brother, causing him to crash and get stitches in his chin.
Older brother: “He’s trying to kill me, you know.”
Me: “You don’t think this was an accident?”
Older brother (pointing): “Look at him. He’s crazy.”
I look at him. Blond buzz cut, angelic blue eyes. He’s sucking on a sucker, coloring a picture of a Power Ranger with one hand, holding his mother’s hand with the other. Looks pretty sane to me.
Me: “He looks harmless.”
Older brother: “Yeah, well, he’s sneaky. I need to wear a bike helmet around him.”
No shots, please!
“Please, God, let it be nose spray.”
Eight year-old Sierra, kneeling in a corner of the exam room as her mom and I discuss flu vaccine options.
(God listened. She got her nose spray.)
The basics: Standing around at San Francisco Airport this morning, waiting to board for Dulles. Mother and her +/- 13 year-old daughter sitting side-by-side nearby. Daughter is being irritating in the way only a 13 year-old can be: iPod plugged in, deadly bored expression, loud gum chewing, hands doing those “whatever” flapping movements.
Daughter: “But I just want want some caaandy!”
Mother, reading a magazine: “No! No candy until after lunch.” (It’s a little after 10AM.)
Daughter (hangs head between knees, then bolts upright, whips her hair back, whines): “But it is after lunch where we’re going!”
Long silence punctuated by virtuoso nonverbal communication: daughter fidgets, sighs heavily, pokes her kid brother for the sport of it, turns iPod up to “Deafening.” Mother finally tosses her magazine on the floor, mutters an under-the-breath obscenity, and stomps away. Returns shortly with a giant bag of peanut M&Ms, tosses it in the girl’s lap.
Mother: “Now, don’t ask for anything else!”
They remain silent–except for some overly-loud, open-mouthed crunching–until I board the plane.
“When you put a pencil in your pocket and you sit down, you should take it out before you do that.”
Terrell, age 6, explaining how he got the half-inch wooden sliver in his behind.
Knock-knock jokes hold a special fascination for preschoolers, probably because it’s their first try at the kind of humor that will evolve, inevitably, into middle-school fart jokes. It’s not as easy as it looks, though. Practice makes perfect in knock-knock land.
The basics: Tim’s come to see me with a mild case of poison oak. His mom encourages Tim to tell me his new joke. I’m game. I like knock-knock jokes, especially as told by four year-olds.
Tim (eyes wide, big grin): “Knock-knock.”
Me: “Who’s there?”
Tim (leans forward, hand cupped to mouth, whispers): “You’re supposed to say banana.”
Me: “Okay, let’s try it again.”
Tim (points at me): “Orange you banana, banana? That’s what!”
A brief pause, while the mangled punch line sinks in, then the three of us dissolve in a fit of giggles.
Tim, finally: “That’s a good one, isn’t it?”
It’s a great one.