“Bye!” shouts Brinley, leaning out the door as I get into the car to run some errands. “Take care of yourself!”
Then quietly, and with a sheepish grin, not knowing if it’s ok or not:
“…jerk.”
Brin, on spinning in her new swing: “My tummy sure gets silly when I spin a lot. I burped a little.”
This is my Fourth of July daughter: in between rounds of sparklers and ground flowers, she checks in on all of the neighbors in our yard to make sure that they have enough sparklers for themselves. She watches some fireworks, then of her own volition goes into the house to grab snacks and cold waters for our friends. Handing them around, she asks, “Are you having the best Fourth of July party ever?”
My heart just bursts with love for her.
I told Brinley about how Grandpa used to pour a glass of milk, drink it, then fill it up again with water this time, drinking down the resulting white, cloudy water.
Emphatically, and with a considerable amount of disgust, she exclaims, “Yuck! That would taste like a bucket of CHEESE AND CRACKERS!”
Brinley: “Dad, how would we live without hands? Would we grab stuff with our mouths?”
Brinley on the changing seasons: “Fall is coming in a week of a week of a week of a week of a half.”
After eating some cake to celebrate my birthday, we move outside to put Brin in the swing. In a few minutes she springs a question on me.
“Dad, what did you wish for?”
“Well”, I say, hesitating, “if I tell you it might not come true.”
“It’s ok, Dad. I’ll make it come true.” she says, sweetly.
After a pause I tell her, “My wish was to have many, many more birthdays with my wonderful family.”
Brinley closes her eyes for a bit.
With a smile she opens her eyes and says, “There, now it’s come true.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
I am beginning to get misty-eyed when she follows up with, “But you might die pretty soon because you’re getting really, really old.”
In speaking about the coronavirus, Brin called it “perilous”. Whose kid is this?!
Brin: “My mouth is a good mouther.”
“Dad!” Brinley yells as she runs full-tilt into the room I’m in. “We’ve got a big, no-good problem.”
She stares hard at me, pausing for dramatic effect to let the news sink in.
“We’re out of cookie cereal.”