When I was a kid, I liked to know things.
I liked to know secret things. Anything that felt secretive. Or anything about people being sad. Or anything that people were doing. Basically anything about anybody my parents were talking about.
I remember asking my parents what they were talking about all the time. And if they didn’t tell me, it was probably one of the most frustrating feelings of my existence. The future therapist in me had a compulsion to know.
And now I have a daughter who is exactly the same way.
It’s uncanny, really.
She’ll listen to our conversations without us realizing, and next thing you know, she’s asking things like “what do mean (says names) have lost their house?” and we’re like “whatever do you mean, sweet girl? You’re not supposed to know that…” and she’s like “I know it. I heard you talking about it. Where will they live now that they’ve lost their house?” and we’re like “We’re not talking about this with you! Nobody’s supposed to know.” and she’s like “when I get home I’m going to tell all my friends that (says names) lost their house…”
We’ve gotta be more careful what we talk about in front of our children.
Anyway, a little while ago, during quiet time (which is basically nap time for kids who are too old for naps), Anna pulled Wife aside and asked if they could have a talk.
Then Anna began an onslaught of questions about Wife’s childhood traumas that would make any adult blush. Wife happened to have a camera nearby so she snagged it and recorded part of the conversation.
Here’s a snippet. (Wife wants me to emphasize that this was completely spontaneous and wasn’t staged.)
Looks like we have another therapist in the family! Or a possible candidate for initiating the next Spanish Inquisition.
I couldn’t be more proud.
(Also, I posted a day late, but that’s because of technical difficulties of uploading a Youtube clip when I really wanted to just be sleeping so I went to bed so I could get up before the sun and go teach seminary without wanting to die. Don’t hate.)