Sophia and I have a deal - if she stays in her bed, quietly, but can't go to sleep after prayers, I will come upstairs and say some extra prayers with her. Tonight, a few minutes after she'd been tucked in I heard the thundering pitter-pat of tiny feet, apparently training for the 100-meter dash or something. She raced from one side of her room to the other, pausing only to leap and (from the sounds of it) twirl. It was a percussive exploration of the frustration of bedtime, played out on my living room ceiling.
"Sophia!" I called out, "You need to stay in your bed if you want me to come upstairs!" She froze in place, then after a long minute, said wonderingly,
"How did you KNOW?"
Because your mama is a genius, dear child. A genius.
A while ago Raphael and Sophia got into some sort argument. Those two could argue about the ambient air pressure, I swear. Sophia stomped away into the next room, shaking her head and bellowing,
"That is the SECOND time Raphi has RUINED MY LIFE!"
And I'm betting it's not the last time, either. Those two deserve each other.
One night, after her bath, Clay was combing Sophia's hair. This is a process that she is convinced we invented just to persecute her and that we continue in this practice solely out of the hardness of our hearts. The whole "so you don't look like a homeless child" is singularly unconvincing to her. This night, as Clay pulled the comb ever-so-gently through her hair, she sighed.
"Isn't it NICE for you?" she said, reaching up to pat his hair, "because when you comb your hair, you only have a LITTLE combing to do."
Now, I'm not saying that Clay's hair is thinning, per se, but I do credit him with massive self-confidence that this statement of hers made him laugh and laugh.
Oh, if only someone paid attention to her.