Anna, aged about 3, speaking to some friends of ours who speak Greek:
A: Will you get me a box?
Don: A box?
A: (nodding) A wittle box. Filled wit toys.
D: Mmm, ok.
A: Oh, and “wittle box” is Greek for big box.
Ruby, crawling into my bed, wrapping her arms around my neck and saying, “Mama, I need some youuuuuu.”
Jolie announcing, after daydreaming in the car, “Mommy, if somebody stole Zoe and were about to throw her into a volcano, I would rescue her, even if I had to fall in the volcano!”
Zoe, bursting into excited giggles each time she realizes she’s about to breastfeed.
Jolie and Anna letting Ruby win every race.
The endless conversations of exactly how big Jesus really is: “The sun!” “The sun times google plex!” “Bigger than you could imagine!” Also, every compliment given to me being diminshed slightly by Mary: “You look pretty, Mama, but not as pretty as Mary.” “You’re a good mommy, Mommy!” “But she’s not as good as Mary!” “That’s true.”
Telling Jolie, “I’m your mommy, not your friend,” and her looking at me in shock and exclaiming, “You are too my friend!” (at which, of course, I apologized immediatly and assured her she was right.)