Kids, kids

I'm babysat a cute little boy Henry's age this morning. While they sat at the table facing each other and eating Frosted Cheerios, I sat on a short bathroom stool with a bottle of lemon Old English, a rag, and a magic erase, and scrubbed dried gunk off my kitchen cupboards.

Needing to pick out the dirt from the cracks, I retrieved my plastic birthday box from a tall shelf and got out a couple of toothpicks. Then I sat the birthday box on the table and went to work. Henry and his friend were fascinated by the box and began removing bottles of food dye and birthday candles from the box. I was a little concerned about the dye, but the boys lined the bottles up on the table and promised sincerely that they would only look and not open.

The conversation as Henry's friend stares at a bottle of red dye sitting on the table:

Henry: I won't open it.

Friend: I won't open it.

Henry: That's real. (Said long, slow, and with authority.)

Friend: Real means dangerous.

Henry. Oh, yes.