When Laura Ingalls was ten years old, a woman named Mrs. Starr asked Laura’s ma to give Laura up to her and her doctor husband, to adopt and to help with chores. Of course, Ma said what I’d say,
“Not today!” Or something like that, but definitely with an “n” and an “o” in it.
I need my ten-year-old, too. I wish every mama had one of these.
Everyone says we look alike, but I have extra spice where she has extra sugar. Meaning, that although she’s spunky (and that does get her into trouble sometimes), she’s sweet spunky, and never selfish. I have a lot to learn from her.
She reads me. It’s uncanny. Tonight, she could tell that I had had it, with my (still) sore and (still) swollen ankle, with the boys who weren’t listening, with dishes, laundry, and life itself and all in it. I’d just had it.
It took me nearly a decade to learn that when I feel like this, I should take Thumper’s mama’s advice: since I’m not saying anything nice, I should “say nothing at all.” So this evening, I buried my head in Laura by Donald Zochert. Our ballerina noticed my silence and before I realized it, she had a bubble bath ready for me, complete with set-out pajamas and a tray holding a candle, a water goblet, and, oh yes, a very generous portion of chocolate raspberry cream pie.
And just like that, my mood was lifted. After my bath, we had a long girl talk over what it was like in Laura’s days, when ladies would have the nerve to ask for someone else’s children, and due to hardships, some mamas would actually consider it.