Miss America's Poignant Pearl of the Week
Five-year-old Miss America, in her jammies: "You should be nice to me."
Me, dragging my butt in around 8:00 pm after a very long, emotionally draining day: "Oh yeah? Why's that?"
Miss America props her butt up onto my bed and points to her nose. "Cuz I got a bloody nose."
I immediately stop brooding and check her, but see no sign of the red stuff. "What happened?"
She glances at the ceiling and then the window and then back at me with her face scrunched up like a hand puppet. "Well, I acceedently had my finger in my nose, and, and den I poked it and sorta scratched it, and den it camed out all bleeding."
"So why did you have your finger in your nose?"
Miss America hesitates, perhaps remembering admonishments to keep her hands out of her messy breathing apparatus. "Um, well, I was on da floor, and um, um, ts, um, my legs was in de air and um, um . . ."
I picture this. "And somehow your finger got up your nose?"
She heaves an exasperated sigh. "I was on da floor doing yoda!"
"So you gotta be nice to me."
I nod, because after the day I've had, this makes perfect sense to me.