What do you want to be when you grow up?

This is the one loaded question that Mamma personally hated folks asking her when she was a child and has made it a point not to ask the brat said rude question. The brat in the interim has had no such sensitivity to the issue and has declared his candidature open for positions ranging from auto driver to watchman to liftman to dance master to astronaut (so he can go far far away and never get shaouded ad). The current topic of the month is Community Helpers at school and the brat had to dress up as a doctor today. A white shirt and stethoscope were borrowed from friends and a slick Next blue striped full sleeved shirt and black trousers were pressed into service. Hair cut also happened yesterday so the face was thankfully visible this morning, and not just as mamma had gotten used to seeing, a little patch of eyes, nose, mouth and cheek under a mountain of black hair standing up in every which direction. The brat was looking, if mamma might be permitted to say so herself, quite spit and clean dapper. He put the stethoscope into his ears and proceeded to check the hell out of the breathing of every inmate in the house. And walked jauntily down the lobby to the car, waiting to take him to school.
A well meaning neighbour happened to be passing by. "Oh brat," she gushed. "So are you going to be a doctor when you grow up?"
The brat cocked one sole eyebrow up and furrowed his brow simultaneously. "No. I will be pile-it. I will fly in d sky."
Mamma was delighted that he had raised his self set bar of ambition and said, "Really, that will be nice brat. You can fly an aeroplane wherever you want to."
The wheels within the brat's skull began creaking and clanking. "Where will I pahk d aeroplane. Is too beeg. I not be pile-it. I be Superman. Then I dont need plane."
Mamma digested this piece of information with the gravitas it deserved.
"Mamma, who will stich my costoom? Widoud d red chaddi and belt. I don wantu wear red chaddi oudside the pant. Everybuddy will laffatme."