Wednesday, July 12, 2006


At the Job. With the Younger Preschool kids, sitting on their squares and ready for a book. I say, "What do you want to read about?"

L (my favorite three-year-old kid ever, crying fits and all): "George Washington."

Me: "Uh!? I'm not sure we even have any books on George Washington... Say, who is George Washington, anyway?"

L: "He's a monkey. And him curious."

I got a grin out of that, but I sure wish she'd said "George Bush."


Picking up a box, I get scraped by a jagged edge, and say "Ow!"

B, a really sweet-natured three-year-old (with a few mild developmental problems due to early neglect, which will probably soon clear up), approached me. "What happen?"

"This box fell down by itself," I said. "And it scraped me."

B: "Me?" (He's a bit iffy on identity reference at the moment.)

Me: "No, it scraped me."

B: "Me?"

Me: "No, look." I point at my own chest. "It scraped me."

B points at me. "Me?"

Me: "No, when you point at me, you say you." I take his hand and tap my chest. "You."

He taps his own chest. "You?"

Me: "No, you say--- Oh, forget it."

B: "Me?"

L, listening in: "No, him."

Now this would likely drive a lot of people up the wall, but me? Sometimes I just love my chosen field. Yes. Me.

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