Every now and again I am reminded just how much like me the kid is, for example when I have to put a bandaid on her knee or when I find a page torn out of a book or this:



The biggest difference between the two of us is that I always tried to hide my crimes or blame my imaginary friend (Mr. Nobody, he lived between our walls) while she will come immediately to tell us about the bad thing she had done.

For example, after her bedtime the other night I was in our room and I heard her at her door:


“What is it?”

“I did something not good…

“I did something bad…

“I did something that will make you angry.”

With that I decided I ought to go and take a look, and there I saw her, standing in her doorway wearing her adorable little nightgown and slippers. And then I saw the diamond shape she had drawn on the carpet. In black marker.

I didn’t get angry. I told her to get back in her bed and I fetched the carpet cleaner. And I knew in my mind that it was something I probably had done back in my day, and then denied having done.

This is why my mother laughs at me now.

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