I do this thing. When I have this quiet moment with Abby, I try to turn it into a "moment." You know, one of those small simple things that don't seem life-altering at the time but that will be a bedrock memory in her brain. When her future husband asks her about her childhood, she won't talk about the thirty seven times a day I yell at her to hurry up, but about the sweet, meaningful moments we shared. In these moments, I'll impart priceless wisdom and affection while the breeze blows gently and God smiles down on me for being such a good mommy.
Somehow, it doesn't usually seem to work out that way.
Take tonight for example. We jumped on the trampoline, and then laid side by side as the sun set and watched the clouds go by. Here's how the conversation went:
Me: Look at those clouds--aren't they beautiful?
Abby: That one looks like a B!
Me: It sure does. Just look at how big the sky is. And imagine--God make this whole world all by himself. He's that big! And we get to live here and see it all.
Her: Now it looks like a pig.
Me: Okay, then.
Abby: Can we jump some more?
Me: Why don't we just talk some more?
Abby: I'm getting down.
Fine, thwart my attempt to give you an idyllic childhood.
Lest you think that Abby's just too much of a little kid to think grown up thoughts, let me also recount for you the conversation we had at bedtime. I had just told her that when she gets her tonsils out next week, she will get to take a stuffed animal with her. She has about 8 that she sleeps with regularly.
Abby: Why only one?
Me: I don't know, that's just the rule.
Abby: How am I supposed to choose which one to take?
Me: Maybe you should talk to them about it, and ask them who wants to go.
Abby: Mom. They don't talk.
Me: Well, maybe they'll talk to you!
Abby: Um, no. (Turns to animals) Hey guys, who wants to go with me? (Waits.) Guys? (Waits.) Anybody? (To me) Told you.
Can't think where she gets that attitude.