What is wrong with little boys? Is there something missing? Are they not quite right?
Godzilla was outside, happily playing whilst his brother was at school. I was indoors, happily avoiding doing the housework, when I hear a scream. A hurty scream. A really hurty scream.
I rush outside and attempt one of those useless, futile attempts to get sensible information out of a three year old. A hurt one.
“Did you hurt yourself?” I ask. To which the answer is a louder scream.
Ok, try a different tact. “Where did you hurt yourself?” To which the answer is an even louder scream.
Eventually, Godzilla calms down a little, so I attempt again, “Where did you hurt yourself?”
“Over dere, on dat” he says, pointing to one of the poles that holds the garage roof up. Not quite the answer I was looking for, but at least we’re getting somewhere.
Not quite being able to work out exactly how he’ managed to hurt himself, I continue the futile investigation and ask him just how he’d done it.
“Like dis,” he informs me, walking over to the pole and smacking his head against it.
Ah. Ok. Like that.
One thing The Books never tell you is how to placate a screaming, hurt again three year old while you’re pissing yourself laughing.