why can’t we be like they are

Two moments that made my life a little more delightful, courtesy of some kids:

I was in Jo-Ann Fabric a while back, and there were two boys, about 7 or 8, who were doing an admirable job of not being bored out of their skulls while mom perused the pattern books. They played an obviously oft-played scenario that centered around a football game. But it was about the drama around the game — the players psyching themselves up beforehand, the roar of the crowd, the broadcasters’ ramping up the television audiences. I’m not sure if they had dolls or figurines or were just acting it all out, but it was epic. Finally, at game time, they were players on the same team. A play went down. Oh, no, bad news — one of the players was hurt! One of the boys, fully in character as the man down, uttered to his compatriot: I’m hurt, bro.

It was so plaintive, delivered with perfect pathos, that it immediately entered my personal vernacular. Every time I’ve barked my shin, scraped my elbow, or sustained any one of the multitudes of moving related injuries, I murmur softly to myself, I’m hurt, bro.

Then: I was in 99 Cents Store getting toothpaste (such a deal), when a similarly-aged young man popped out from the Halloween aisle with a plastic version of a gruesome severed forearm.

Stop, cause I’m armed! he said. Get it? GET IT? 

The question was aimed at his delightfully slow-burning big sister, who then had to walk through the store with the little brother behind her, rhythmically bonking her on the head with the hand part of the severed limb.

Being the youngest of five, I was nowhere near as artful with my annoyance of my older siblings. And I’m regretting it now.