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a bum tale

While prepping dinner yesterday evening, I heard my three-year-old mumble something to himself. I heard only the words “Mr. Finger” and “bum.”

I called from the kitchen, “Please tell me Mr. Finger and Mr. Bum aren’t visiting each other!”

He burst into laughter. “Silly Mommy,” he scolded, running to join me in the kitchen. “It’s not ‘Mr. Bum.’ It’s just ‘bum.'”

“Oh, okay,” I said, chuckling as he ran off again.

When I relayed the story to my husband later, he laughed, too. “Please tell me you’re writing this stuff down!” 

Our three-year-old joined us and began scratching himself. I seized the opportunity to see if his earlier comment was a fleeting notion or part of a framework. “Don’t scratch Mr. Bum!” I cautioned.

He laughed. “I already told you! It’s not Mr. Bum, just ‘bum.'” I’m not sure what all qualifies for the honorific “Mr.” in his world, but “bum” doesn’t meet the criteria.

I watched my husband stifle his giggles. Recalling his earlier statement, I thought, “I should be writing some of this down.” Which I am, starting now.

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