The other day, I was helping Gracie line up her crayons. I must have put one in the wrong place because she threw her hands up in desperation and cried out, “MOM! You ruined my whole day!” And then I wasn’t allowed to touch the crayons any more.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, while buckling him into his car seat. “How come?”
“Well, my top teeth bit down really hard on my bottom teeth. I need to go see the dentist so he can fix them.”
Stifling a laugh, I clarified, “So, we need to see the dentist because you bit your own teeth?”
“Yes,” he said very matter of factly. “Let’s go there right now.”
On Sunday, Chris and I were sitting in one of the church pews waiting for the service to begin. We were whispering about the round of golf Chris had played the day before, and he was telling me about a really nice guy their group had been paired up with.
“His name was Lafe,” he whispered. “What kind of name do you think that is? French?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “It sounds Nordic. Sort of like a Viking name.”
Chris sat there for a minute thinking about that and then in a totally serious voice he whispered back to me, “I don’t think this guy was a Viking…”
I burst out laughing and could barely get it together by the time the minister stood up to address the congregation.
These people make me laugh. And I loves them.