Bo-bo

Darcy stumbles during our walk. We pick him up, dust him off, offer a hug and comfort. “Do you have a bo-bo?” I ask.

(For me, growing up in central Ontario, this would’ve been a “boo-boo” at his age. Here, in francophone influenced Eastern Ontario, it’s a “bo-bo”. Long “oh”.)

“Yes. I got a bo-bo”, and he pulls up the leg of his pants to display his scraped-up knee. Scraped up, yes, but two or three days ago, I’d say. I guess I didn’t tell him the bo-bo had to be fresh.

Just like home?

George is driving a small ride-on car down the sidewalk. Suddenly he stops, says to Thomas:

“Oh. I have to go back – I forgot my keys!”