Love hurts

Petal has had a crush on a fellow pre-schooler, let's call him Don Juan, for months now. Sadly, he was showing little sign of feeling the same way. Petal decided to take matters into her own hands.

"Mummy, I'm going to ask Don Juan if he loves me," she informed me one morning.

"Ah, okay, um, are you sure?" I spluttered.

"Yes, I'm going to ask him and I think he's going to say 'yes'," she proclaimed.

I admired her guts, but I was terrified too.

She left for pre-school that morning with a look of determination.

That afternoon when I picked her up, she came running to me with her big, round eyes on the verge of tears.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I asked Don Juan if he loved me and he said, 'No'," she sobbed.

Oh dear. "Then what did he say?" I asked.

"Nothing, he just went back to playing in the sandpit."

The cold-hearted bastard!

I couldn't think of any words of wisdom until later that evening as I was putting her to bed.

"Darling, you know you're not able to get married when you're four years old. So really, you don't want to meet your perfect boy at this age." I consoled.

"But Mummy," she protested. "It's too late. I've met the boy I want to marry."

This was going to be tricky.

"Well, I met Daddy when I was 27 and that's a good age to meet the person you want to marry."

She thought about this for a while.

"Or 87?" she asked.

"Sounds good to me!" her father called from the next room.

"Me too" I added.

We lay in bed together, blissful in the thought of 83 years free from heart-break.

"But not 170," Petal piped up.

"Yes, that may be too long to wait," I agreed.

"No, Mummy, because when I'm 170 I'll be dead."

I couldn't take anymore.

"Goodnight, darling," I sighed, hoping that tomorrow we could return to talking about Barbie and glitter.