15-11.jpgMy current occupation entails the combination of aunt and nanny-hood. That means my hair is subjected to regular sessions with big green combs, eager fingers, and very interesting conversation. Tonight was one such session.

 “Why does it make tracks in your hair, Britt?” Landon asks me as he pulled the comb through my hair. I try to explain to his three year-old intellect the facts of life when it comes to combs making tracks in blonde tresses, inserting a few “oooh, be careful, that hurts!”

(Allow me to interject a slight disclaimer–he is actually pretty gentle when combing my hair, just has a slightly painful episode every now and then…)

He wrenched the comb through my hair again. “It’s stuck, Britt. You can be tough.” Followed by a violent jerk and a quick change of subject. “You should really go to the doctor.”

 “What?” I exclaimed, suddenly concerned he may have partially scalped me. “Why do I need to go to the doctor?”

“Well, if you have a baby. You should go to our doctor. She can let you hear the baby’s heart beat. It goes, ‘tchk, tchk, tchk’. She pokes it into your tummy like this,” he climbs around to be in front of me and demonstrates by jabbing his hand under his rib cage, “And then you get to hear your baby’s heart beat.”

He returned to his combing post and continued his train of thought. “How many more months until you have a baby, Britt? Three? Four?”

 He paused for a split second, and then he added sympathetically, “God should really give you a baby.”

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