We live close to a Mr. Pickle’s Sandwich Shop. Home of fabulous sandwiches. Often, Mr. Pickles stands on a street corner we drive past on the way to and from Miss Bear’s preschool.
As it happens, Mr. Pickles is an energetic dancer.
“Look, Miss Bear! It’s Mr. Pickle!”
Miss Bear is four-years-old now and has grown into quite a natural skeptic. (She takes after her father.) “Mom, Mr. Pickle isn’t real!”
“That’s a costume!”
“How can you say such a thing? Mr. Pickle is right there!”
“Pickles aren’t real. Pickles don’t have arms and legs.”
“What about mom? Is mom real?”
“Mom is real.”
“What about dad. Is daddy real?”
“What about brother? Is brother real?”
“Yes, even brother is real.”
“What about TV. Is everything you see on TV real?”
She replied without hesitation. “Yes, TV is real.”
Miss Bear’s grasp on reality is pretty solid but it’s still a work in progress.
In the meantime, our family has a new word: Apickleist–-a person who does not believe in Mr. Pickle.