Annoyed, I get up from my make-up mirror and walk in there.
“What’s the issue?” I say.
He says to me with bright eyes, like he just remembered a new thing he’d learned, “We’re colored people!”
“We’re colored people?” I say back to him, just to be sure I heard right, and begin preparing the necessary speech in my head.
“YES!” he says, excitedly.
Then he holds one arm out, looks down at it and says, “What color am I?”
“You’re white, I guess,” I reply.
“What color are you?”
“I’m white too.”
“What color is daddy?”
“Daddy is white too.”
He thinks a second and says, “What color is Hadley?”
“Hadley (one of our dogs) is yellow.”
“And what color is Brady?” he says.
“Brady (another dog) is kind of beige, I guess.” I say.
“Yes,” he says, satisfied.
I wait a moment.
This is not at all the direction I thought this talk was going.
I thought my kid, who really truly doesn’t see color, had finally had it pointed out to him at summer camp.
But he has his own interpretation of it.
And I think that’s so very nice.
Last week, Asher told me that I needed to go to the doctor (him being the doctor) to have my booty checked.
I asked him what was wrong with my booty.
He mentioned that it was squeaky.
I’m typically a little afraid of what’s coming if someone tells me there’s something wrong with my booty but this one just left me intriqued.
So I sat down and let him “examine” me.
Fully clothed, of course.
He looked around for a minute, then grabbed something with this clampy thing he has and brought it over.
He said, “You’re all better now. I found this in your booty.”
Yes, clearly. A sheet of bubble wrap lost in my booty would indeed make it squeaky.
Dear Lord, little kids are entertaining.