The other day I went for a run outside when it was really windy. While I was running, I came across an empty trash can (it was trash day) that had blown almost all the way into the very busy road in front of our neighborhood. I decided to be a good citizen, and I went and picked up the trash can and was running it back to the closest yard, when I tripped over something in the construction site, and I feel and scraped up my hands. When I got home, I showed Lora my bloody hand and told her what happened. Lora laughed, just as I did, but Presley was very interested in how I got a “boo-boo” on my hand.
Exactly one week later, the following conversation took place while I was putting Presley to bed:
P1: Daddy is your boo-boo better?
Me: Yes. See. (Showing her the scabbed over cut on my hand)
P1: It’s still there.
Me: I know, but it is almost gone. It doesn’t hurt any more.
P1: How did you get your boo-boo?
Me: I got a cut on my hand.
P1: But how?
Me: I feel down running.
P1: But Daddy, I want you to tell me the story how you were running and then you went to get the trash and then you fell down.
Me: You little stinker. You already know how what happened.
Presley just smiled.
I remember my thought process during this conversation. First, I was surprised that she didn’t remember, and then I was impressed that she did remember, but she just wanted to hear the story again.
I love my little sponge.
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