I think my daughter has my propensity for thinking about time and ages. Of course, she tends to add her own twist to the genetic gifts we’ve bestowed.
We recently laughed together remembering a phase she went through as a preschooler. Having collected so few of her own experiences and memories, she would borrow from my son’s life.
It sounded like this: “Remember when I was nine, and I was in Mrs. Bentley’s class?” (Mrs. Bentley was my son’s third grade teacher.) He could roll his eyes good-naturedly at this sort of wishful thinking, but he drew the line when she started bringing him into these fanciful memories.
“Remember when I was ten and you were four and I had to tie your shoes for you?”
The insult. The outrage.
If you’ve ever argued with a four-year-old, you know that it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. The more aggravated my son got, the more of his life she would steal for her own reminiscence.
And today, as I pulled weeds once again, I marveled at how layers of time and memory create a life.
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