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."
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."
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.