The child cannot yet pronounce her r's, so sometimes, she sounds like Linus, and sometimes like she's from New Joisey. She is not mine; the middle of four, the oldest girl. Big brother, Eric, is on the autism spectrum. Little brother, David, is, well, a little brother.
Today, from the back of the car, I hear, "That David is crazy. A maniac. I need a restraining order on him."
"What?" I'm not certain I heard correctly. It sounded like, "a westwaining Owdough."
"A restraining order?"
The little voice is confident. "He should have to stay ninety-two feet away." A pause. "At all times."
Whoa. "Where did you learn about restraining orders?"
"Fwum Ewic," she says. Eric is all of nine.
Conversation in this one's household must be far more interesting than in our own.