Oh, the shame...

I was clipping T's finger and toenails tonight.

While I was holding his little fingers and clipping, he noticed that I happened to have a raw spot near one of my cuticles. "Oh NO!" he said. "You're hurt!"

"Yes." I said.

And I continued clipping.

"Did you fall?" he said.

"Nope." I said.

"Well, what happened Mommy? What happened to your finger?"

Because one is not supposed to lie, not even to save face in front of a three year old...I had to tell him the truth.

"I was picking at my fingernail." I said. Clearly this "picking at my fingernail" had no meaning to him. He had greater expectations of me.

"What? You were picking at your fingernail? You mean you were hanging on the bars and you fell?" he said.

(The "bars" at preschool are only for the very coordinated or the brave of heart. T falls off of these and sustains injuries nearly every day.)

"Nope." I said.

"You were running really, really fast and you fell and hurt your finger?"

"Nope." I said.

"You were flying in the air, really high up in the air, and then your finger got hurt?"

"Nope." I said, ready to put an end to this humiliating conversation. "I was just picking at my fingernail."

"Oh." he said. "Well maybe you shouldn't pick your fingernail Mommy."

Thank you T.

Slow Moving Thought Processes

T was Thomas the train for Halloween. M was a spider web. Very nice.

Since then, T has been a little bit obsessed, talking about what he is going to be for next Halloween. Sometimes he'll ask to be a dragon, sometimes a ghost, and once he requested to be Daddy.

Last night on the way home he says to me, "Mommy, I want to be an injun for Halloween."

I gasped in horror. In grad school one of the papers we had to write was about library services for a group in need. I chose to look at one of the Ojibwe tribes in my home state. It was such an interesting experience and the people I met during the interviews were full of such a sense of culture and pride. I couldn't bear to hear my son call them "injuns".

"You mean an Indian," I said firmly. "A Native American."

"No, MOMMY. An INJUN." he said. Then he laughed maniacally, like he sensed that what he was saying was terribly derogatory.

"T," I said. "The "injuns" are the Native American people. They were here first. There are many tribes and each tribe has a unique and special culture. You should make sure you call them the correct name."

He sighed. He's so used to being corrected all of the time...

"Mommy," he said. "I want to be a Naadibe American for Halloween. Like Thomas!"


--Like Thomas.

Thomas the train ENGINE.

No sense me jumping to conclusions or anything.

The Junior FH!