Conversations. Again.

The scene: Church nursery, during first service.

The players: Myself and all three of the girls, two of whom are happily playing.

Medium Fry is upset. I have told her she cannot do something. She did it anyway. She got punished. Now she's crying.

"I want my duckie!" she wails. ("Duckie" comes out more like "guckie.")

"It's at home, honey." I point to the nearby shelf. "There's your bunny," I say, indicating the stuffed bunny she's appropriated on previous Sunday mornings.

"Nooooo."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"I want my duckie!"

"Your duckie is at home."

"Go get it!" Medium wails, about an inch shy of being absolutely heartbroken.

"I can't. I'm sorry."

Dejected, Medium sits down in a slump, pops her thumb in her mouth, and sniffles.

All goes well until she must be disciplined again.

And you can pretty much repeat the entire conversation. Verbatim.