Last night about two seconds before that internal celebration that happens every night when I walk out of my daughters’ room and say “Goodnight, I love you,” my 8-year-old asked if I could do a quiz with her. A magazine quiz.
Honestly, this prospect did not thrill me. It was after 8:30. As a general rule, my parenting carriage turns back into a (fairly rotten) pumpkin at about 8 p.m. But, I do have a weakness for magazine quizzes.
Also, in the past week or so, let’s say, I’ve been really trying more than usual to say yes as much as possible. And so, the quiz.
Which animal are you?
I perched on the side of E’s bed as her sister was across the room getting into her PJs. I answered questions like, “What is your favorite snack?” I selected my answers from sometimes puzzling choices “Steak, salad, celery.” No, no, no, I though. There were about ten questions. And I enjoyed listening to my 8-year-old expertly read the questions and answers with such command and confidence. I take for granted the acute literacy of my kids sometimes. But in moments like these I can enjoy their love of the written word, the structure of sentences, the humor in a Q&A format, the messiness of having to choose an answer that isn’t quite right but is close enough. (“What is your catch phrase?” Um. “Be a good friend,” I guess. Because it sure isn’t “Eat a lot of tasty food.”)
When I’d answered all of the questions and it was time to tally the results I started to get impatient again. I was the third person to take this quiz, and there was some confusion about what answers had been mine—check marks and x’s and circles were overlapping in some places. I held it together, barely, and we added up my score.
I know. The suspense is too much to take.
Turns out, I’m a howler monkey. “Loud and ready for fun.”
Except.
Both of my girls said, nearly in unison, “Mom, you’re so not a howler monkey.”
It’s true. I’m not.
They were both determined to be koalas. That seems about right to me, no matter how you characterize koalas. Even though my two girls are about as different as two sisters can be, save the love for books and reading.
I laughed. I kissed them again. I tucked them in. I made it to the doorway, already transitioning my thoughts to how much time I had left to read before “my show,” as the family has taken to referring to “This is Us,” came on.
And I watched my show and enjoyed it, as I always do, dwelling on how well marriage and family are portrayed through small moments of connection and how those moments are remembered through a lifetime.
