Lucy has just cut herself with her scissors. Bactine and Band-Aids have been applied. The tears have stopped. What remains is Lucy’s desire to hear stories about times that Bob and I have cut ourselves with scissors.
I tell her about the time I cut my thumb with an x-acto knife. I tell her about the time I cut my hand with a butcher knife while slicing a bagel.
Zoe tells her about the time she cut her own-own hand in her own-own town when she was chopping cucumbers with her own-own mom.*
Lucy sums up. “So all the girls have cut themselves. But not the boys.”
Zoe turns to Bob. “Daddy? Have you ever cut yourself with a knife?”
Bob: “More times than I can count.” (Which is true, bless his perforated heart.)
Lucy: “Like a billion times?”
Bob: “No. More like twenty.”
Zoe: (Rolling her eyes.) “Daddddy. You can count to twenty.”
Me: “You said you had cut yourself more times than you can count.”
+ + +
* Zoe and Lucy’s pretend world — their “own-own” whatever is their pretend (and improved) version of that thing. They each have an own-own mom and dad (who are far more permissive than we are), and an own-own house, which has all the toys they could imagine, etc.