I was downstairs in the family room folding laundry (surprise, there).  There girls were playing in the living room above me, which was only a half of a flight of steps away. I was lost in my own thoughts a little bit, foldingfoldingfolding, when the girls’ chatter escalated just enough to break through my navel-gazing.  From the sound of things, Saoirse was helping Quinn learn her colors, and had quickly grown exasperated:

SK:  “Quinn! We’ve been talking about it every single day when Mom doesn’t see us and I’m not at school.”

Quinn:  (unintelligible)

SK:  “You know what it is!”

Quinn:  “Pink!”

SK:  “Yes! You got it!  Now, do you know what color this is?”

I stopped in mid-fold to write down what they were saying.  It took me 24 years of life to decide to become a teacher. And, to tell you the truth, I thought I was a pretty decent one at the time. But Saoirse is four, and insists that she doesn’t want to have any other job in the world when she grows up than being a mom.  She’s got me beat by a mile.

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