I get up early. By 6.15 I am down stairs in the living room with a laptop with a steaming cup of coffee. I try to get a good hour or so of work done before the kids get up.
But for the past week, HM (high maintenance), my 3 and ½-year-old, has woken up before her two older sisters and tip toed down the stairs with her blanket and pillow and snuggled in my lap.
I love this time with her. She looks into my eyes, revels in my undivided attention, and tells me something about her life: The name of a new friend. A toy she wants. A declaration that she doesn’t like Cheerios.
Today she looked at me and asked: “Mummy, why are we girls?”
I could hear my husband snickering from the kitchen as he poured his coffee. I sensed that he was thrilled that it was I that was asked the question.
Me: “Because when you are born you are either a boy or a girl and we were born girls”.
(It was too early to think of a better answer).
HM: “Why are we girls, mummy”
Me: “Because that’s the way god made you.”
(That was profound, I thought to myself, still feeling like I was evading the question.)
HM: “But WHY are we girls mummy.”
Me: “Don’t you like being a girl, honey?”
More snickering from the kitchen. The British have a word for enjoying someone else’s misfortune: schadenfreude.
Me: “Ask your daddy, it’s his fault”.
