So the other day C comes running into the kitchen where I was doing the dishes, “daddy, daddy!”

Yes?

“I have a rash!”

Oh, I’m sorry. Where?

“Yes. It’s on my neck. I’m very sad. I have a rash.” I kneel down to see while he shakes his head mournfully.

Then his brother appears, running as fast as he can, “Rash?”

I don’t respond fast enough. In fact, I can’t help laughing. N doesn’t like this. It isn’t what he came running for.

He tilts his head forward to maximize the effect of those big pleading brown eyes, “Rash? Pleeeeaaasse. Rash.”

The older brother isn’t happy. He was in the middle of getting sympathy, and that’s a tough thing to turn away from. “No! Not rash, Rash! I have a rash. I’m very sad!”

“Rash, please!” Now he starts to do a little dance, stomping his feet and moving his fists up and down like certain college buddies used to do when they were urging me to drink. “Rash, Rash, Rash!”

While C & I watch this little performance, I can see the light bulb turning on in his head. He looks at me with a smile, “Rash?”

I guess certain things are more important than sympathy. Three big bowls of Rash coming up!