This Is Three

Here's a story I'm capturing for posterity:

Now that Eloise is in preschool, she knows things. And when she doesn't know things, then no one does.

Allow me to illustrate:

Me: How was Sam's soccer practice.
Eloise: Good. I met a friend. Her had a case here [points to arm] because her falled on the monkey bars at her school.
Me: Oh, you mean a cast. That's called a cast on her arm.
Eloise: Or case. We don't know. Nobody knows actually. 

Good Bones by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.