A little girl marched into the office today with a big fling of the main door and this announcement: "I don't feew vewy good!" she said.
The little-girl voice and missing "r" sound melted my heart—it always does.
I ushered her inside the clinic.
"What hurts, honey?" I asked.
She shrugged. She was adorable—six years old with black bouncy curls and freckles scattered over her sweet little face.
"Let me take your temperature," I said, modeling how to lift her tongue and then close her mouth over the plastic-covered thermometer. We waited till we heard a little beep.
"98.4," I told her. "No fever."
She shrugged again, dismissing my non-diagnosis.
"Why don't you sit down for a few minutes and see if you feel better," I said, gesturing to the hospital-grade cots we have in our clinic. They're covered with blue plastic-y leather-y stuff—the kind of material we can wipe down with disinfectant on a near-constant basis.
She shook her head. "When I way down on a soft and furry pwace, it makes me feel bettow," she informed me. "It won't make me feel bettow to lie down there."
So earnest! So honest! So true!
"Well, sweetie, this is all we have for you," I said, trying not to laugh. "We don't really have anything soft and furry to lie on."
"Then I will just go on back to cwass," she told me with yet another shrug. And off she was, out the door, curls bouncing along behind.
Children are so very, very dear.