Baby girl and I are discussing books. She’s rather picky about what she reads, preferring fast-paced, adventure-filled books, but with a definite girly focus.
“I didn’t like the Little House on the Prairie books,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “They weren’t very interesting when you read them before, but you were pretty small. If you try them again you might like them.”
“I doubt it,” she says, with that cynical little twist in her voice.
“It can’t hurt to try,” I tell her.
“Unless you’re allergic to something,” she tells me. “Then your face could swell up and turn red and you could have a hard time breathing and you could get sick and die. Trying something like that again wouldn’t be good. You could have used a better phrase, mom.”
I’m almost certain that she is not allergic to Laura Ingalls Wilder, especially considering that she’s been through the home Ms. Wilder lived in and has had her books on our shelves her whole life, but I’m too tired to argue the point tonight. Besides, I think I’m out of Benadryl-and you never know.