Dash and I were sitting at the table. He was doing a craft where he colored a picture, then decorated the page with stickers and glued on bits of colorful paper cut into shapes. At one point he dropped his stickers, and started whining for me to pick them up for him.
“You can pick the stickers up, your hands aren’t broken.”
He held up his hands in front of him as if to show me that he knew they were fine, and with all the exasperation a three year old can manage, he said, “My hands aren’t broken, but my brains are broken!”
“Your brains aren’t broken, your brains are pretty smart.”
“No! They’re broken. I broked them a little while ago.”
“You can pick up stickers with a broken brain.”
I’m not sure where he got the idea about a broken brain, but if he meant he’s cracked, he needs to understand that’s just a part of belonging to this family.