You’re going to have a stinky suspicion that I’m making this up, I think. Unless you also have a three year old who says things like this to you, and then you know.
So we’re sitting at dinner last night [second dinner for her, first dinner for us, which is just how it works out some nights], and she says to me:
Mommy, I wished I could go inside my hawt [that’s heart, to you].
Why do you wish you could go inside your heart?
So I could see the spirit of God.
She says these things sometimes, these out-of-the-mouth-of-babes-type-things, and I see exactly why Jesus loved the little children. But she also says these things, and I have to stop myself from feeling just a little bit smug about it.
See, she also told me I was a bad bad Mommy around a dozen times yesterday for not letting her watch a show after she’d pitched a hissy fit.
This little tidbit I take no credit for, of course. I’ve never told her she was a bad bad daughter, so it’s not like she picked up this insult from me. It’s just a part of being three, I think. So I think it’s only fair, if I’m not taking credit for her criticisms, that I should also not take credit for the sweet things that come out of her mouth.
She just is what she is: sweet, sour, precious, demanding, angelic, sneaky, soft-hearted, stubborn as a damn mule.
But then, I have to stop myself from being smug all over again. Because the truth is, I kind of like her this way.