Over the weekend we noticed that my daughter Celeste had a bunch of wood splinters in her hand. One of them looked like it was starting to get infected, so we had a Sunday evening splinter-ectomy, our first ever. I calmly explained what I was about to do, and Celeste seemed like she was behind the idea (especially after I characterized the splinters as being “yucky yucky” — Celeste is opposed to the yucky in all of its forms).
Then we were ready to get to work. Carole held Celeste still while I dug the splinters out of her hand with a needle and tweezers. The kid is two years old, so you’d think that this is where the howling and the pleading and the crying begins. But no. I dug out one, two, three, four splinters from her hand, and not a tear out of her (even though she said she was in some discomfort after the third one).
Best. Kid. Ever.
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Same thing happened with my then three year old girl. I’m not sure if it’s a trust issue (actually, I’m sure it is), but she sat there and endured it, and was glad when the splinters were gone. Interesting. But I have to argue yours isn’t the best kid ever…