My seven year old son is blatantly honest. This boy once told a cashier that she looked like a fish and told a TV repairman that he looked like Santa because of his big, round belly.
He has mentioned to a good friend of mine that she has a huge forehead, he touched the face of my husband’s co-worker and told her that he liked her “little mole” and he once saw two Muslim women wearing headscarves, mistook those headscarves for bandannas, and then called them both pirates.
I never know what he will say.
The other day our puppy, Daisy, wouldn’t stop throwing up. After a trip to the vet, a half-dozen x-rays and a barium study, her doctor sent us home with some special canned food and a bottle of Pepcid.
That afternoon, my son was sitting on my lap when he eyed one of Daisy’s toys sitting on the floor; a ball you fill with kibble that she can roll around until the treats fall out.
He asked, “Can I put some little bones in Daisy’s ball?”
I replied, “No. Not today, buddy. She can’t have anything hard right now. The vet gave us those cans because the food inside is soft and squishy.”
Then he ran his hand up my sleeve and said, “Oh. Like your arms.”