Tell me a story

Walking home from nursery yesterday, Alex told me about his day.

He had been playing at crying (he likes the drama, the contorted expressions, and the mock-mournful voices we do when we discuss what it’s like to be sad.) Then he turned to me and said, “I cry. I cry more.”

“Yes, Alex, you cried.” I thought we were still discussing the present, though I wondered why he cried “more”.

“I cry thumb,” he said, holding out his forefinger. This was a new turn; we had not been discussing the reason he was pretending to cry, though I had asked him if he was “sad”.

“Did you have an ouchy thumb?”

“Goose kiss better.” (He calls all the nursery attendants Goose, because their aprons have Mother Goose on them. I’m trying to get him to learn their names and use them when he says bye-bye, but with only indifferent success.)

I conclude that he injured his finger at nursery that day, and that one of the nursery nurses kissed it better. Talking about crying must have triggered the memory, which he wanted to tell me about. I have often, while soothing him to sleep, talked about the day with him, and I guess the idea of telling over the events of a day has taken root.