When feminism rears its young, sassy head

I have cute kids. I may have mentioned it before (once or twice), but I try not to be a bore about it. Occasionally though, I just have to break out an anecdote, because it tickles me.

Thing 1, my daughter, is 4-1/2 years old, or will be in a few weeks anyway. She’s a fun-loving but moody — and very smart — girl. Just like me in other words. Well, in some ways.

Tonight, the kids were going over rhymes; rhymes about catching, being caught, being missed — it’s a recurrent theme in their play these days. I dredged up “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man” from somewhere in my memory. Thing 1 immediately wanted to learn it, but couldn’t quite get it. After a few attempts, I slowly repeated the first half for her.

“Run…run…as fast…as you can”

“You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread…woman” she finished. A budding feminist. I’m so proud.

A second anecdote, for purely selfish reasons: I’d like to remember some snapshots of the little smart alec. She was having problems going to sleep tonight, and I could hear her moving around upstairs. I went up and found her in bed, with covers obviously just pulled over her head.

“Go to sleep,” I told her.
“I was,” came her far-too-sassy-not-at-all-sleepy reply.
“I love you. Stay in bed.”
“I love you too. And Mom, please don’t wake me up again.”

Sassy feminist. Gotta love her.


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