Lucy has a little stuffed Elmo doll (no, he does not giggle, or tickle, or burp. He's just stuffed, with hard plastic eyes.) that is often at the center of a lot of her adventures. Today she walked into the kitchen, cradling him in her arms.
"Elmo crying. He fell on tile. So hard. Lucy make him feel better."
"Oh, Lucy," I said. "I bet he feels a lot better with you caring for him."
"Uh-huh," she said, and carried him over to the sliding-glass door. "You feel better, Elmo?"
I turned around, my heart warmed by my daughter's sweetness.
Then I heard a thunk.
When I looked back, Elmo was on the floor, his eyes having hit the hard tile.
"Oh, Elmo," Lucy said. "You fell. Lucy make you feel better." She picked him back up and shushed him.
I chuckled, then stopped. Because a minute later, she held him at arms length and deliberately dropped him on the floor. Then she hit his head against the floor a couple times to make sure he really needed someone to take care of him.
Sheesh, Lucy. Munchausen's by proxy already? And you can't even tie shoes yet.