The Littlest Reporter

Boys will be boys, and sisters will tattle. 

Tonight, Peter had a friend over.  They wanted to play in the basement (the “spaceship” is down there), but since J had conference calls almost all evening, they were relegated to the upper 2 floors.  This means that everything they did was likely in plain view of their little sidekick, Ella.  Being boys, they thought wrestling would be a fun way to pass the time until the spaceship area was unoccupied… I, on the other hand, don’t find wrestling to be a wise choice for a time-passing activity, but I’m not 10, and I’m not a boy.  Something like “it’s all fun and games until someone gets their eye poked out” springs to mind.

Ella wanted desperately to join the boys, but all her efforts to join them were thwarted, so she and I played nearby, moving clothes piece by piece from her new armoire to her old dresser and back again, reading to her baby, and laughing about nothing and everything.

J says “no blood, no foul” but suddenly there was blood.  I hear, “Peter, your fingernails aren’t even nails, they are CLAWS.” Since I know this to be true, I go to investigate.  Ugh, Peter accidentally scraped along his friend’s arm with one of his talons.  I was mom the medic and bandaged/antibacterialized up the friend, remembering that we had some ice cream in the freezer to make it all better.  Fortunately, being boys, this sort of thing is expected as a part of play, and so there were no tears, name-calling, pouting, accusations, drama, none of that girly-stuff.

J came up to release his hold on the spaceship docking area and little Ella, without any actual words, told on the boys.  She told J the story of Peter’s friend’s scraped arm and the antibacterial lotion, and the bandaging.  She used her arms and hands and facial expressions, nodding for yes or no, and pointing to convey the story.  J understood completely.

You don’t need words to be a tattle tale!

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