Lucy was just rifling through the 17 kinds of pickles in the fridge, not finding what she was looking for. Thinking she was being Awfully Darn Picky, I asked what it was she needed.
"I want the ones you made," she said.
And this made me realize two things.
1) I have a pickle problem (I have a feeling this observation will score me some comments)
2) I have the children my mother wanted
Mom was always making homemade versions of the things we liked. Turkey soup comes to mind. My sister and I begged her to please just feed us Campbell's when she did this. There was pretty much nothing mom could make that we didn't complain about and request the processed versions of. Sorry, mom. I'm sure the soup was delicious.
The other day at lunch, Lucy told me that she and daddy had noticed that our ketchup was two years out of date. And then she said, "can we make our own? With our tomatoes? I bet we'd eat it faster."
I cannot in polite words describe what my sister and I would have done if mom tried to foist homemade ketchup on us.
Also, my kids have an appreciation for symphony and opera, something my mom prayed for nightly when we were kids. The difference here is that I go to symphony and opera to get away from my children. And they beg to go with me. And then they sit quietly, making me squirm with the horror of my own misbehavior at ages more advanced than theirs. They are making me look bad.
It could only possibly be worse if both kids pick up instruments and then beg us to learn an instrument so we can play quartets after dinner. At which point my mother will disown me and adopt my children.
And play chamber music. While eating homemade turkey soup.
Eventually you get what you pray for.
edited to add: Lucy just asked if she could please have the heel piece of bread. There is something wrong with that child.