Five-Year-Olds: Better Than Prozac

The Scene: My car.
The Characters: Me, my five-year old son, and his best girl friend

“Guess what, Mrs. Rama? What if da whole universe fell in da toilet?”

(*riotous laughter, high-pitched squealing*)

“Hey! I think I see da Eiffel tower! Are we in Pay-Wiss?”

“Nope. That’s a church spire, you guys. We’re still in Cleveland.”

“Are we going to Pay-Wiss?”

“Nope, Playhouse Square. To see a puppet show, remember?”

“Hey, I know! Let’s pretend this whole car is a hot dog and we’re eating it!”

(*chomping sounds*)

“Jonas, stop chewing on the door handle, please.”

“I’m not chewing on da door handle, Mama! I AM EATING A HOT DAWG. Hey, I know! Let’s pretend my mom’s head is a hot dog and we’re eating it.”

(*chomping sounds*)

“Don’t touch my hair, kids. I mean it.”

“Are we downtown yet?”

“Not quite. You’ll know when you see a tall building.”

“Rockabye baby, on da twee top, when da wind blows, I’ll skin you alive.”

“Indra! Where did you learn that?”

“My brother taught it to me. What does dis but-ton do?”

“That one’s the ‘EJECT’ button. I wouldn’t press it.”

“Nuh-uh! Does dis caw wee-wee have an ‘EJECT’ but-tin, Mrs. Rama?”

“Only on my son’s side.”

“Hey, I know! Let’s pretend this EJECT button is a hot dog and we’re eating it!”

(*chomping sounds*)

(*contemplative silence*)

Jonas, Indra: “Where are we going?”

*Scene*

(Alternate Post Title: “Let’s Pretend This Car is a Hot Dog and We’re Eating It“)