My son suffers from occasional breathing issues, and he uses a nebulizer (sort of a medicated, face-mounted, humidfier for those who still remember going to sleep in a room full of Vicks-smelling steam) to get over them. We call it his "breathing treatment". One day he asks me, all serious-like, "Dad, why do they call it a treatment? It's not a treat and it's not a mint."
Since he was all of 3 or 4 at the time, I had no real answer for him, except to be highly amused.
Shortly thereafter he tells me from the back seat of the car, "When I grow up I want to be a pirate or a knight." He paused a moment, then added, "or a scientist," just to make sure I knew I wasn't excluded completely from his world. He sounded so angst-ridden as he then exclaimed, "The problem is that I don't know how to train to be a pirate!"
We spend alot of nights on the bathroom floor with the nebulizer at our house, too. I feel for you.
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