Yesterday, as we were driving home from a highly satisfactory dinner at Horse Thief Hollow*, we passed a softball field in the middle of a not-yet-known-to-me neighborhood.
Mommyo, sentimentally: “Ahh, that reminds me of the softball field I used to play on as a girl. I miss playing softball.”
The Six-Year-Old: “I’ll play softball with you, Mommyo.”
Daddyo, eagerly: “Do you want to go out in the morning and throw the ball around, The Six-Year-Old?”
The Six-Year-Old: “No. I want to play softball with Mommyo so that she can remember her childhood. I can’t bear to see her cry. Are you crying, Mommyo?”
Mommyo: “No. I’m just so happy.”
The Six-Year-Old: “That’s ok. That I can bear.”
*I say highly satisfactory, but in all honesty, I have to report that The Six-Year-Old was dissatisfied by the lack of Wanted posters on the walls. She helped the place out by drawing one on her children’s menu.