That's what M. told me last night. Isn't that true of everyone?
I met a four-and-a-half-year old at Passover seder the other night and we became fast friends, discussing such matters as parrot tattoos and afikomen hiding places.
As she planted herself on my lap, she turned to look at me and cocked her head. "When I saw you, I could tell you were a daughter," she said sagely.
"Really?" I said. "How could you tell?"
"Because you were sitting next to your mother," she answered.
My sister-in-law corrected her. "Actually, that was my mother. Christina's mother isn't here tonight."
A lot of explanation ensued, explanation about in-laws and faraway mothers and grown-up kids. It was too much for the girl, so she changed her assessment.
"Well. I can tell you are a teenager," she said.
"Why, thank you," I said. "Really, I am a teenager on the inside."
"You are older on the outside," she said, nodding definitively. "But on the inside you are a teenager."
"Yes," I agreed.
Sigh.
