“Momma! These glasses are broken.” The three-year-old is trying to unfurl those black plastic eye-doctor sunglasses and spread them across her face.
“No, they aren’t,” my husband says. He wore them home from his appointment the other day after his pupil dilation.
“But look,” she says. “They’re broken.” She’s walking around the living room, wearing a purple sparkle dress, pink wings, and the black sunglasses. My husband and I are eating enchiladas in the dining room.
“No,” I say. “They just don’t have any arms. See these?” I point to the glasses on my face. “These bars on glasses, these are called the arms.” She wanders into the dining room to have a look. “Those sunglasses don’t have arms. Like how some people don’t have arms. Those sunglasses don’t.”
“I think they’re broken,” she says again, allowing the black plastic to stay around her face.
“They’re not,” I say. “See how they work just fine without arms.”
“I think someone needs to fix them,” she says.
“Nope,” my husband says.
“Nobody needs to fix them,” I say. “They’re fine just as they are.”