"What's that thing on you, Daddy?"

"What thing?"
"On you. All wrapped up."
"Oh. That ... that's a bandage ... I, uh, I donated blood at work today."
Blank stare. Well, duh, Daddy-O. How do you explain blood donation to a toddler? "Remember a couple of weeks ago, when they took my hair away at school, and they gave it to somebody else who needed it?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, today they took some blood and gave it to somebody else." Oh great. This is a fine way to get a kid excited about learning: school is a place where they take things from you. What happened to your arm, Daddy? "See, um, blood can make people feel better when they're sick."
Blank stare.
"Ok, when you're sick ... when you don't feel good ... how do Mommy and Daddy make you feel better?"
"Nurse."
"That's right, boo makes you feel better. And when your teeth hurt, what do we do?"
"You give me medicine."
"And when you have a cough?"
"Cough medicine!"
"That's right. Blood can sometimes be like medicine."
And off she goes to play.
Whew.

I haven't quite figured out how to answer questions yet. She's looking for information, right? So I can't just come up with some nonsensical answer. And when I start to give an answer in her language - they took my blood today - I often find myself overexplaining things. Honestly, I think overexplaining is better than leaving Wrig with an image of people taking away my blood the way toddlers swipe toys. And even as I speak, I hear in the back of my head: blahbity-blah. How much of this really sinks in?

But a few minutes after our discussion, Wrig comes up to me and announces, "You're sick, Daddy."
"Am I? What would make me feel better?"
"A nap," she decides. She picks up a blanket and covers my lap.
"That's a great idea," I tell her. "I bet a cuddle would make me feel better, too." So we cuddle. Then she tells me I have a cough, so I cough. And she runs away and gets handfuls of cough medicine from the chair in the corner. I tell her I feel better and kiss her all over. She tells me, "I'm pretending to be a doctor!" and demands that I cough again.
Because she is a toddler, after all, we repeat this endlessly. And even after I get bored I can't help but think, She's pretending to be a doctor.

So, sure, I blahbity-blah. Ask my students; they'll tell you. You've made it through this post; you know. But Wrig? She listens.