As we drove to the shoe barn to get Grace sneakers this afternoon the children were talking about my dad’s new Mini Cooper. (another time: my incredible inability to deal with shoes for my children. It’s like a blind spot. I am just So Bad At Shoes.)
Whit said, with emotion, “I love Mini Coopers so much.”
Grace responded, “But Whit, you’ve never even seen a Mini Cooper.”
“I know. But I still love them.”
Random.
Later, as I made a panicked pit stop for Robitussin DM (I have the worst cold/strep combo I’ve had in years) it began to rain. Grace had decreed a “quiet ride home,” so there was unusual calm in the car. I heard a small voice pipe up: “I think you should put on the wipers.” Wow. A backseat driver. Who knew that was hereditary? I guess there is no question that Whit, the unexpected micromanager, is also my child.
During our drive Grace was singing an annoying Top 40 song whose refrain is “Someone call 911, someone call 911.” Whit chimed in now and then. Over dinner he began to sing again, “someone call 911, someone call 911,” (ironically with the general persistence and appeal of a siren) and Grace joined him. “Grace,” Whit said, with exaggerated exasperation, “You are annoying me! You are so annoying!”
Again, my child. (incidentally, he found that random red headband himself and put it on like that)