My mom had been trying for two years to get me to take the last of my stuff out of her house. I resist because I’m renting and my rental is tiny. (Crap. The last and best excuse is going to disappear in less than a month.) But every so often she unloads something on me, usually without me knowing. Like handing one of the boys an old toy or three. Recently she gave Evan a small collection of worry dolls.
And Evan loved them, sticking them in his backpack and taking them to school. When school let out, he gathered a large circle of his friends and pulled out the worry dolls with flourish.
Evan: HERE THEY ARE! See these are worry dolls! You tell them your worries, and they keep them for you! Wanna try?!
The kids: YEAH!!! ME!!!! ME!!! ME!!!!
Hands stretched out, demanding for a doll.
Evan: HOLD ON! I’ll go first.
The parents leaned in close. I held my breath. Finally a look into his little soul to see what I can do to help ease the transition, to help him heal, to make him better.
Evan: (took a breath) I worry that a hippo will run me over!
KJ: I worry a buffalo will eat me!
The Nice Girl: I worry we’ll hit a turtle!
Boy Twin: I worry a hippo will run me over!
Girl Twin: I worry an alligator will run me over!
K: I worry a deer will run me over!
RJ: I worry a deer will eat me!
I forgot. Evan’s class is full of budding comedians, trying to one up each other.