Insincerity

I had Fiala on my lap.  I was sitting on the (closed) toilet, washing her face, applying medicine to it, and doing her hair.  I looked across the bathroom floor, and on the other side of the small room were the tell-tale signs of small pieces of ripped cardstock and, sprinkled liberally on the floor, an assortment of colorful elastics used for ponytails.  (We call them “sprouts”, in honor of the teensy girl ponytails which sprout out of the top of my baby daughters’ heads.)

To Fiala, “Hm.  Do you see all those sprouts on the floor, Fi?”

Fiala’s hand flew to her mouth, in shock.  With a high, breathy voice and apparent deep concern, she gasped, and asked, “Happened??”

I wonder.