‘Mama…,’ a loud wail comes from the sofa.
She points at a little dot of a scab, all dried up now, and slightly poky.
She’s crying now: her face a picture of panic.
‘It’s only a scab jaan – your hurty has dried up, that’s all.’
‘Noooo…’ she insists. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Shall I put a nice little band-aid on?’
‘No…’ she wails again, shaking her curly mop decisively.
‘Are you sure?’ I try again.
‘I sure,’ she whimpers.
I kiss the little dip at her ankle where the offending spot sits. She loses interest in the subject and goes back to watching Dora.
A grammatically incorrect sentence has made my day.
Motherhood is a strange animal.