Esme just started first grade, and her homework assignment was to fill out a form with little squares and sentence starters so she could tell her teacher and her class a little more about herself. Things like “When I grow up…”, and “My favorite book is…”, etc. One of the squares started “I wish…” and she’d already filled it with something that looked like: “mom youwar.” So I asked her what it said. And she said, “that you were my mom.”
And I said, “But I AM your mom.”
And she said, “No, no, that Mrs. Burkett was my mom—because she’s soooooo nice!”
“WHAT? What about me?”
“Oh, you can be my grandma. I’ll still see you on weekends.”
Tegan and I were in the backyard. I was weeding, he was playing with the dogs. From across the lawn he says, “HEY MOM, WHAT’S THIS?” and holds up something brown. Like any good mom, I said, “IT BETTER NOT BE POOP!”
Tegan said, “Well….it doesn’t taste like poop.”
It was a mushroom.