"it gets better and better," i told her.  "you have no idea."

i've always liked having conversations with L.  even though she's three, she talks to me like she's an adult.  like a lot of the kids i babysit, she's brutally honest, smart, and her strong personality and confidence (strongest of the bunch) makes her especially fascinating.  i love wondering what she'll be like in high school.  she's gonna like telling people what to do, i think.  i wonder what her first break-up will be like.  i bet she'll be on student council.  i envision her going through a punk rock phase.   maybe a short-lived electro phase.  hmm, she's definitely rock n' roll.

she climbs onto a stool and stands on top of it.  i run up behind her and sneak my feet outside of the legs to brace the stool.  i put my hands on the seat, where she can't see.

she reaches her hands up toward the ceiling.

"see?  other kids can't do this, but i can."

i let her stay there for as long as she wants.  i don't say anything. 

she gets mad when she sees i'm holding the stool.

for dinner, spaghetti-o's and peas.  i grab the heart-shaped care bears bowl, the obvious choice.

"that bowl's for babies," she tells me.  she gets an idea: "i know!  i should eat it out of a cup!  now that would be funny."

at first, i start to tell her that maybe it isn't the best idea.  and then - who the hell am i to say?

"you're right.  that would be funny."  sparkly Hello Kitty cup, it is.

part of my unconditional love for kids is my utter amazement of them.  so simple and innocent.  budding personalities that will shape their lives and relationships forever.  subtle hints of their parents' best and worst traits.  a charming unfamiliarity with emotions.

especially pain.

"i understand you're sad," i always tell them.  sometimes they're crying because they miss their mom, or their brother won't share a toy, or Dora the Explorer is over and they need a nap.

they never understand.  there's no convincing anyone.

"trust me.  this is nothing.  you have no idea."  i usually throw that in there with hopes that they'll remember it when they're in their 20s, possibly clinically depressed, possibly going through a divorce, possibly unemployed, possibly quite happy, but bored.  i know i remember my mom telling me i had it easy.  i never believed her.

the most fascinating thing about children is that they really have no idea.  they don't know what we know.  sometimes i wish i could tell them how easy they have it.  or warn them.  tell them what to expect.  who to avoid.  what to say.  how to deal.  i want to tell them everything that's going to happen, everything they need to know.  but i can't.

of course.

"she's wearing glasses.  that means she's funny." L points to a Hannah Montana sticker and peels it off.  she sticks it on a page in my journal.

"i'll put it right here," she sticks it underneath some of my writing.  "so you know where your words are."

thanks, L.

xo