I watch as she runs towards the exercise ball — pen in hand — leaps into the air, and delivers a killing blow. The squishy orb pops. Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s done. Regan, my four-year old daughter, wheels around, “Don’t tell, Mom.” She is in a panic; her index finger is covering the hole created by her weapon.
“What were you thinking?” I ask. Then: “Mom’s gonna be mad.” I exacerbate the situation.
“No,” she screams, “No. You can’t tell her.” Regan is terrified. Her eyes are darting back-and-forth, searching for a solution. “Quick, bring me my Crayon box.”
“Now,” her tiny voice wails.
“Regan, I don’t think your Crayons are gonna help you.” I take a deep, tired breath and move towards her. “Take your finger off the ball and let’s go tell Mom.”
“No! Get me my Crayon box.”
I shove a rising laugh down my throat. “Okay.” I grab the colorful box atop the bookshelf. I walk it to her.
“Great, now dump it.”
“Just do it.”
I dump it.
“There,” she says, pointing. Her eyes are alight with hope.
“What’s that?” I ask. A small, white sticker is resting atop the pile of overturned Crayons.
“Why do you have a patch in your Crayon box?”
“Give it to me, hurry.”
I hand it to her. She peels the back of the patch off and slams it onto the ball.
Relief courses through her body. She sighs: “All better.”
I laugh now and say, “We still have to tell Mom.”
She smiles, too, and deviously reveals her fragile teeth. “Are you sure?”