I was snuggling with Megan tonight as I tucked her in. I’d brought her a quilt fresh from the dryer and she was giddy. “Ooh, I wish I lived in a dryer!” she squealed. I lied down cheek-to-cheek with her and she started waxing philosophical, as Megan often does.
“Mom, why are there so many things in the world? Like violins, and the sky, and why does the earth have to spin–well, I know why, because everywhere needs at least a little bit of sunlight–but, like, why are beds soft, and why aren’t we animals instead of people? I mean, nobody could know everything there is to know.”
I smiled at her with the tender magnanimity that only a mother on the cusp of a Great Teaching Moment can summon.
“Well, there is one person who knows everything. And do you know who that is?”
“That’s right. And I think that’s why it took Him so long to create the earth, because there is so, so much to know.”
Megan thought about this for a quiet moment, then let out a soft sigh.
“Well, I’m just glad he didn’t make our underwear metal. Or wood. Wood would be terrible.”