The B-Line transit route that I normally take to work has made some minor improvements to it’s route as of late:

a) They now have a bus route specifically for UBC students, just as frequent and expressly for those going to the campus — which I am not — meaning that all those students aren’t riding the normal bus.

b) The officials now load the busses through all three doors when departing from the SkyTrain station making the whole experience of crazy crowds just a little more tolerable.

c) And the combination of the above now makes it a feasable option to both get a seat and arrive at my destination in a timely manner.

It also tends to mean that I sit in the middle part of the bus rather than the back, and in doing so am privy to the odd conversations of, say, mothers talking to their toddler children — who normally sit closer to the front. On this particular morning I found it somewhat interesting that there was just such an example:

(Paraphrased to make it funnier)

Mother says, as daughter (~2 y.o.) reaches for the plastic shopping bag she is carrying: “No dear, you don’t need one. They’re for owiees.”

Daughter pouts.

Mother says, as daughter looks as though she is about to tantrum: “You only want one because you saw me buy them. Okay, well, just one. Pick where you want to put it.”

Daughter rolls up pant leg and exposes one perfectly healthy knee-cap.

Mother relents: “This is only because you see them, okay.”

Daughter grabs colorful bandage from mother, and applies it askew to her knee.

Mother, rumaging through stroller bag: “There, does that make it all better? Do you want your bottle?”

Daughter massages knee aggressively, and seems as though she actually starts to believe that there is something wrong with it. A worried look crosses her face.

Mother offers bottle of milk, and daughter pushes it away, whimpering: “It’s okay, dear, the bandage will make the owiee all better. It’s okay. Mommy will kiss it better.”

Daughter calms slightly as mother bends and kisses her knee.

Hilarity continues as we arrive at my stop and I get off the bus. Correct me if I’m wrong, but either the mother needs pyschotherapy for delusions — or she needs some advice on why not pretending your children have minor flesh wounds is a good thing.