Sweet M came running into my home office to find me yesterday.
"Mom, mom, what's sab?
"I don't know. Where did you hear it?"
"On TV . . . you know, you know, a sab," she said, urgently.
"I don't know, honey."
"You know, like S-A-B, SAB," she spelled it urgently.
"Sab? I really don't know. Can you tell me the sentence it was in?"
"Never mind," she said, and walked off, clearly disappointed, as was I, to have not been able to explain what a sab was.
Later Sweet M was in the bathtub, and I'd wandered into the bathroom to check on her.
"Mom, you gotta tell me. What's a sab?"
"Gosh, I don't know, honey? You heard in on TV?"
"On what show did you hear it?"
"On Grossology! It's new. It's great. It's about gross stuff!" she said with the age-appropriate enthusiasm for the gross.
Now I had a clue.
"Can you tell me a little more about the sab? Where was it?"
"Oh, it was on the skin," she rubbed her arm. "They got a scrape. And then a sab."
Some people have a-ha moments. I think this was an a-duh moment.
"Oh, a scab!"
I felt pretty silly to not have figured it out before, but there you go. A-duh for mom.
But what is also interesting is that we are so unphysically active in our city life that Sweet M hasn't had a scab since she learned to talk. No bike riding like Charlie, over at Autismland. No ski lessons like Bud. No skateboarding or roughhousing. No scabs. I have to do something that gets us all moving, even if we wind up with something gross like a scab.