Just wondering...

Molly: Can you go to university when you're dead?

Me: No.

Molly: Can you go if you're invisible?

Me: I don't know.

All around the Magic Tree House

While Keith and Devyn continue their nightly Harry Potter club meetings, Molly and I are at an impasse.

It isn't that I don't want to read or that we've run out of material -- we don't agree about which book it is that we should be reading.

It all started at the beginning of September when the girls and I visited a bookstore while waiting for Devyn's evening ballet class. Molly discovered The Magic Tree House: Midnight on the Moon (Mary Pope Osborne), brandished the book before me, and declared it The.Next.Book. that we just had to read.

Well, we started it that week but, by Friday, Molly had discovered a book about ninjas from the selfsame series -- and didn't look back.

(You need to know that she did not know what a ninja is (probably because I didn't know) yet she had decided that it would be far more interesting than the book that I REALLY WANT to read.)

"But," I protested, "we're on the fourth chapter! We can't just leave the story where we left it."

"Yes, we can," she giggled. "We just won't pick it up."

I was frustrated and bemused. (And, hey, did she just engage me in wordplay?) Here we were at the end of the month and we weren't moving forward. Each night since we'd read the third chapter, Molly had chosen a different book -- really, any other book -- to make her point that we would not be reading Midnight on the Moon.

"I thought you love the Magic Tree House?"

"I do love it and we can read it . . .If it's about ninjas."

I had to think about it for a while: what kind of reader was she? I reminded myself that I was dealing with the kid who -- I'm not joking -- used to refer to her alphabet books as nonfiction. Then, it occurred to me and I knew why she had lost interest in the book about the moon (a subject close to her) and I've mentioned it before: Molly loves nonfiction and she loves fiction but she's not terribly keen on the mostly fiction-some fact hybrid. The facts (obviously positioned) in the titles that I've read so far in the Magic Tree House lack sufficient detail to quench her thirst. Put another way, the books contain either too much or too little of the factual to keep her reading.

But, why ninjas? Like any four-year-old, the kid loved and still loves mystery and learning. The world of the ninja had yet to be explored at that point, but I sense that, just as she dismissed both Dinosaurs Before Dark and Midnight on the Moon, she will grow bored and we won't finish the book about ninjas.

After weighing the options, I don't think I should interrupt this emerging pattern because she gets something from her approach-retreat relationship with the series even if I don't know just what that would be. (It may be that she has yet to figure out that each book in the series will be similar in style; maybe she is optimistic).

On the other hand, I recently picked up one of the companion research guides that is available in the series which, I'm confident, would provide the missing facts that Molly wants. Then, the next time that she dismisses a Magic Tree House book, I could reach for a guide and see if that sustains her interest.

Who knows? I just want to avoid the mother-child morass of guidance vs. intrusion because I've learned my lesson with Devyn. Please note that I am patting myself on the back because I haven't pushed the issue of reading these books in sequence (though I really, really want to) because that's my thing, not theirs.

The Three Little Pigs: In, Down, Over

We have a number of versions of The Three Little Pigs and, with each version that I read to her, poor Molly becomes frustrated beyond belief.

Why? Because the wolf blows the house in and not down or over. 

Little pig, little pig, let me come in. 

'No, no, by the hair on my chiny chin chin.' 

Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.*

Surely, she has asked me, there is a version that has the correct word? In fact, she can recall that I've read it to her in the past but I have no such memory. I have explained, while stifling a laugh, that the word is used because it rhymes with "chinny chin chin" but it's to no avail. She anticipates, at each sitting, the first huffing-and-puffing episode with hope and, looking up at the ceiling, expresses her disappointment and frustration when the wolf threatens to blow the house in.

Why is she hung up on a preposition? I've wondered. Well, in her world, as I've come to understand it, perfection is something you should expect and which you should want to expect. I'm not exaggerating. Despite all my efforts to explain that perfection is not attainable, that striving towards it leads to strife, that everyone has to accept degrees of imperfection and accommodation, the child will not believe me. YOU may settle for imperfection, but she will not.

That many things come easily to her only reinforces her drive. As such, we had the following conversation on May 6:

– Why do you like everything to be perfect? 

– Because everything is boring if it isn't perfect.  

– What does being perfect mean?  

          – Getting things perfect.

– How can you make mistakes if everything has to be perfect?    

– I won't. 

– I make mistakes and I'm not perfect. Is that OK? 

          – I'm perfect.

It not only extends to conversations but to interactions in general. She exacts perfection from the world. Honestly, I didn't quite know what to say the other day when, as a friend of hers expected a gaming device to be charged immediately after plugging it in, Molly, in a world-weary kind of way, snapped: "Just let it suck up some electricity first!"

She also has an adorable, if perplexing, habit of telling you to say something:

– Is this a good idea, Mum? Say, 'That's a good idea'.   

– That's a good idea.

In this way, she constructs the world as she likes it. Lately, we've taken to imitating her in a very affectionate way:

– Is this a good idea, Mummy? Say, 'That's a good idea.' 

– That's a good idea, Daddy.

But, as you might expect, she doesn't like this at all as, we've discovered, she has a proprietary attachment to this manner of speech:

– Hey! You can't say that, Daddy! 

– Why not? 

– That's MY expression.

Of course, we find her adorable as everyone finds their children adorable. Devyn, however, has another approach which is completely understandable:

– Devyn, why didn't you repeat what she said to say?   (I asked, out of curiosity, one day.) 

– Oh. I never say what she commands me to say.

And, that, I've concluded, is how the rest of the world is going to react to our little perfectionist; so we don't correct Devyn's behaviour and, surprisingly, Molly doesn't ever press the issue with her.

This disposition of hers may be advantageous in the area of computer games. Unfortunately, she gets upset when a computer game doesn't behave in a way that she would like it to: If she thinks a snowman should be able to be increased to 2x its size but the game only allows 1.5x, then Molly gets emotional. She used to throw tantrums at two and three years old and each session invariably ended with me telling her that, if she was going to play a game, she would have to follow its rules and not get upset; otherwise, she'd have to turn to another activity.

Keith explained it to her this way: "The only way that you will ever get a game to do exactly what you want is to program one yourself." She seemed to understand this but it was little consolation.

Thankfully, she is obsessed with The Magic School Bus cartoon and books and the teacher, Ms. Frizzle, in the cartoon always says, "Get out there and make some mistakes" or some such thing, which emphasizes my own words that sum up the we-learn-by-making-mistakes approach to life. She takes it all in--over and over and over again--but she doesn't agree.

So, when I correct her behaviour, she quickly points out, "This is MY way of doing something." Frankly, this is fine if she's drawing or creating but not if she's doing something dangerous or unacceptable.

Molly will ask me—or her father—to please use the word "down" if we're going to read the story of The Three Little Pigs to her. I don't see anything wrong with doing so and she doesn't care about losing the rhyme scheme.

Perhaps she'll create computer games one day. Last year, she wanted to be a "brain doctor" or a "muffin maker"—it was all so unclear to her. She tells me these days that she will, in fact, be a doctor; but, no matter how capable she becomes of creating things or of fixing people, the wolf will always blow the house in, and not down or over, as long as she's reading somebody else's work. Life's just like that. Of course, she could decide to write her own version of The Three Little Pigs. . .
__


Attributions:
 Illustration by Leonard Leslie Brooke. 1904 adaptation. (source: Wikipedia)
*Jacobs, Joseph (1890). English Fairy Tales. Oxford University. pp. 68–72. (source: Wikipedia

The Perils of a Good Book - 1

Distraction

(Or, Why I may have to walk Molly to university when the time comes . . . )

I bit my tongue so that she could see, in a safe way, just how dangerous such a budding skill can be. At this point, it is best reserved for the park with your mummy. 

Happy Family Literacy Day!

Today, Devyn left for school dressed as her favourite character -- the cute kid from "I Like Myself" by Karen Beaumont.

Damage control . . .

I'm reading a magazine right now. (It's a Royal Conservatory of Music concert brochure.)

That's good, Molly.

Is this a big girl book?

Yes. But I'm not a big fan of telling you what you can or can't read.  If you like it, that's good.

Grandma says little girls should read books for little girls.

Yes, well, as I told you yesterday, Grandma knows some things but I know more.

And so we've decided . . .

As soon as the shape was inside the gate the wind seemed to catch her up into the air and fling her at the house. It was as though it had flung her first at the gate, waited for her to open it, and then had lifted and thrown her, bag and all, at the front door.  The watching children heard a terrific bang, and as she landed the whole house shook.

Devyn loved the magic of Mary Poppins once she realized that the woman could slide up railings and pull endless items out of an ostensibly empty bag.

What enhanced my experience of the reading was that we have a particularly old copy of the book.Plus, serendipity being what it is, I found a packet of Certs (original flavour) just as I was about to read and gladly allowed her to have her first one.

She cuddled me, watched me as I read, closed her eyes and allowed herself to be drawn into the narrative. 

But today wasn't about Mary Poppins until the end.  Before this, as Devyn attended a pottery day camp at the local art school, Molly and I headed to the library.  There, she pulled book after book for me to read; in all, there were 19 books most of which were pretty short. Her selections aren't always so short but today I was pretty grateful that they were and, thankfully, as I grew tired, she decided to play and didn't choose a 20th title.

I thought it funny that people commented on the number of books that Molly wanted me to read to her since the place was crowded with children and parents participating in some sort of read-for-prizes club. But it might have been the rapid-fire pace with which the process of choosing, sitting, and reading, took place that drew attention to us.

At any rate, I declined to participate in the reading club this year, not knowing if I would actually have to list each book then and there and have Molly recount all 19 stories.  She gladly would have done it but it was, as I say, crowded, noisy, and chaotic to the degree that even Molly remarked on this and asked if we could leave.

Time flies

I happened upon an online journal entry from almost three-years-ago to the day. 

The growth of my girls - July 9, 2007

"I didn't want to have my face painted today."

"No?"

"No. I was scared."

"Oh, I can see how that might be scary."

"Nobody else, just me."

"Nobody else was scared?"

"No."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Sad."

Devyn's aware of herself in the context of others. She compares herself to others.

She's also shot up another two inches in the last couple of months. She has a tiny waist, so her pants are long enough but she needs to wear a belt. (It's surprisingly difficult to find a belt for a preschooler.)

At her last Well Baby appointment (June 29th), Molly was 10lbs 8oz (I won a bet with K about how much she weighed) and 23 inches long. Funny, we didn't know how long she was at birth because that measurement isn't routinely sought.

We've had a difficult month, I'd say. Devyn's feelings about having a sibling aren't always positive and this is to be expected.

She's told me that she's disappointed that I can't spend as much time with her, so I spend as much as I can.

She's told her father that she doesn't always like being a big sister.

She's asked if we have to take Molly along on drives, etc. One day last week or so, while at the kitchen table, she asked:

"Why do we have to have Molly?"

"Because she's part of the family," I struggled. Begging the question, I know.

"Why was she born?"

So, she's struggling with big questions, too.

This might explain why, a couple of weeks before her 4th birthday, she is extraordinarily defiant, argumentative and generally difficult. This makes for long days.

One funny expression lately: when asked if she's ready, Devyn will say, "Ready as a liver bee!"

At least, Molly sleeps through the night. The breastfeeding clinic told me a few times that she's too young to miss feedings and that she needs to be awakened in the middle of the night. Everyone else, including my family doctor, told me to allow her to sleep and that demand-feeding is perfectly fine at this age (10 weeks). I've stopped going to the clinic.

We're continually amazed by Molly, just as we have been amazed by Devyn. She's started kicking and making sounds other than crying. She smiles easily and raises her arms up and down quickly when she's pleased with her toys, etc. She kicks now, lifts her head (but she has since the first week) and always has a pacifier in her mouth.

She's so calm, never cries anymore unless we let her go beyond the hand-sucking stage of hunger. Colic only lasted a few weeks.

Finally, my concentration has returned and I finished reading the first book since becoming pregnant (I'd been averaging about one per week prior to pregnancy) on July 7th.

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I haven't collected my thoughts about this coming-of-age story set in a strife-ridden Nigeria. I do know that it made me long for some fiction by Uwem Akpan.

Pregnancy -- and then sleep-deprivation -- really affected my concentration and made reading impossible.  Considering thatI was on bedrest for much of the latter part, this was a problem. 

Devyn is now very comfortable with being a sister and they're usually the best of friends.

What a pleasant surprise it has been to look back!

OK, she can watch TV

I'm just about to walk down the stairs when I hear a bang: something has hit the floor outside the girls' room.  Molly appears.

"They DO roll, Mummy.  Rocks roll.  That's what they do."

"Really?"

"Yes. Taury from Dinoworld says 'Rocks don't roll'."

"And what do you think?"

"They DO roll."

Molly's Lexicon, Age 3 years + 3 weeks+

Validator

noun. a vehicle that takes you where you want to go and which makes you feel good.

"I took the validator but I didn't get trapped inside."


Me:  Why do you call it a validator? You know it's an elevator.

Molly: (giggling) I just love that word SO MUCH!

So, we aren't allowed to use the word 'elevator' around here. Ever.

Molly's Lexicon, Age 3 years + 2 weeks

Polka dot ear-ness:

Acute condition of unknown etiology. Characterized by tears and sudden need for attention, relapses and remits in direct relationship to presence/absence of older sibling receiving attention. Refractory to treatment that does not include the application of ice.

"I have polka dot earness."

And French settles around us . . .

My just-turned-three Molly sits at the top of the stairs with a small keyboard:

"Happy Birthday à toi! . . . Happy Birthday à toi!"

David, Goliath and Molly (Age 3)

Molly, this morning, announces that she wants to look at science books.  I explain that the book nearest us is about art.  It's called The Art Book and we inherited it from Uncle Walt a few weeks ago.

She flips deliberately through the pages until she lights upon Castagno's The Young David which has a picture of Goliath's head lying beneath the legs of a victorious David.

"Why is the man in the mud?"

I try a number of explanations avoiding certain words until I find one that's most comfortable to me: Goliath was a monster and David was a hero for confronting the monster.  I honestly consider giving her the details and using the conventional words to describe what happens in the story but it seems too soon, too harsh.

"Why was David a hero?"
"Why was Goliath a monster?"
"Why is he in the mud?"

Then, I manage, for the moment, to divert her to other pages but she wants to return to The Young David.  She likes Mary Cassatt's Woman Sewing in a Garden.  She loves Cezanne's La Montagne Saint Victoire Barnes and traces a mountain with her finger as she describes climbing up and then down it and I can't help but wonder if she'll love art as she grows.

I love these moments together and our mornings and Molly's learning.  She directs me and asks me and wants me to know things so that I can teach her.  I know nothing about art history or art but I learn. I learn for her.

Molly lives through pictures and I have an image of her sitting in her stroller at about 7 or 8 months and for the first time purposely turning back through pages in a book to revisit something she liked.  Here, too, she is taking in each detail with equal significance: the green hills, the brown mud, the wavy lines, the sky that could hold a rainbow like the one she saw at her grandmother's house a few weeks ago.

The sun lights up the dining room, exposing motes of dust, and warms the room. The pages are warming, too. I look up from the book for a moment.  Across the table, the keys on Devyn's laptop are hot -- she told me so earlier. Behind this, windows bear evidence of little hands. Through these, I see a dozen or more old-looking balloons on the floor of the porch, left over from Molly's birthday celebrations last week.

Everything today reminds me that Molly is growing up.  We move on to the living room.

"Here," she says, handing me a CD cover of Prokofiev's Romeo & Juliet.  "Why is he lying on the stairs?"

I'm suddenly struck by how much attention she pays to her environment.  I start to consider all of the cultural information that she could gather from this living room alone and it seems a bit overwhelming . . .

"Uh, well, Romeo & Juliet is a story about two young people who wanted to be together but their parents wouldn't allow them to be together."

"Why?"

"Well, they had their own ideas about who should be together and why."  I don't know why I avoid talking about the conflict between the families.  I guess I'm caught off guard.

"They were very sad," I explain, "about not being able to be together . . ."

The World of Michelangelo . . . by Molly

"Here," she says, bringing me a book we'd just inherited on Michelangelo. "Read me the words."

"Uh," I manage, trying to figure out where and how I'd start.

I flip to an image of La Pieta. 

"Who is that woman?"

"That's the man's mother."  Carefully sidestep religion -- check!

"What's she doing?"

"She's holding her son . . . Does she look sad?"

"No."

"Does he look sad?"

"No."

"What does he look like?"

"He looks like a bunch of clay."

Sunday

I manage to steal a couple of hours away from everyone and go to the mall.  While there, I happen upon a bargain table of books.  The collection is by no means impressive but one book catches my eye. Its sole subject? The trapdoor spider.

Devyn -- who casually dines next to enshrined, dessicated insect carcasses on the breakfast table -- finds spiders and insects interesting and I want to learn for her and to connect with her and I'm going to be that mother -- the one who picks up books about spiders to feed her daughter's curiosity even when said child is not around.  But, I need to be casual. 

OK. So, I'm casual.

I should have taken off my jacket.

I look around slowly before I turn the page.

What's the problem, right? They're morphologically different from us and from any other creature crawling on the earth but, really, they're just different.

The red page.  It has a nice green border and its photos are finely detailed and OMFG! I'm looking at a hideous creature -- an alien, repulsive, one-might-as-well-be-crawling-up-my-arm monster of a spider!  Forget it -- I can't be casual.  I know people hear me yelp; I drop the book and head for the exit.

But I did look, I tell myself . . . I guess that's a start.

Morning

As soon as it felt like morning to me, I went into the girls' room.  I hadn't spoken to them since supper the night before and the babysitter had mentioned a Molly meltdown.  As usual, they were both wide awake.  Devyn was pleased to announce that she had been able to comfort her sister in my absence.  I climbed onto the bottom bunk and covered up to get warm.

"I missed you so so much, Mummy," Molly told me. Then, she reached over me for something.

"Well, what did you girls do last night while I was out?"

"Here," Molly said, shoving a book into my neck. "Read this."

"OK," I croaked through neck pain. "I will, but I want to know how your night was first."

"Read this! Read Olivia! I want you to read Olivia."

It wasn't just Olivia; it was Olivia Saves the Circus and probably my least favourite Ian Falconer book.  I groaned inwardly.

Molly opened the book to the first page. "Please read Olivia, Mummy."

She wouldn't be deterred.

So started our day.  Then came the usual requests to go to the library but we both have trouble understanding why it's closed on Mondays. Tomorrow, however, is Tuesday and I promised we'd go right after my training session.

It was great to see Devyn reading after school.  Instead of becoming frustrated when encountering unknown words, she actually welcomed help from me.  She was very excited about two nonfiction readers -- one about cats, the other about dogs -- that she'd signed out of the school library.  We read the book on cats at bedtime.  Molly, who refuses to nap during the day, was exhausted from a late night and preferred to take things apart today though we did thumb through some volcano books.  She didn't even request that I spell words for her and help her print them!

Notable conversations

Last night, after school, Devyn was speaking French and one word in particular was said with such perfect pronunciation that it put both Keith and myself to shame as far as our French goes! It's the "r" sound that follows "par". Being around someone speaking French consistently has really helped her.

That being said, I want to make note of some conversations of the past week that either caused shock, laughter or both. Because Devyn is at school all of the day, her teacher gets to hear all the great things that Devyn has to say -- one unfortunate consequence of having your child in school full-time -- so I only have Molly's words until the summer.

**

It's getting close to the girls' bedtime and our guests are still here. We're seated around the dining room table eating delivered pizza and, somehow, the subject of monsters comes up. Devyn didn't worry about such things -- she was mostly concerned about ghosts but monsters were definitely the stuff of imagination to her.

For Molly, however, it is monsters and, recently, she has taken to hiding Poe -- a cute 'Ugly Doll' stuffed animal -- under her bed before going to sleep. (Technically, Poe is an Ugly Dragon.) During the day, it's a special stuffed toy because Keith bought it for her in NYC last year. They were all the rage.


"I don't like scary green monsters," Molly says.

"Well, there are no monsters here," we reassure her.

"Do you think that Mummy would allow monsters in the house around her children?" I seek to further reassure her.

"Yes," Keith adds. "We would never allow monsters around our children."

Molly looks confused and, without skipping a beat, points out: "But YOU bought POE."

**

On the way to the car after preschool on Thursday, I ask Molly repeatedly to hold my hand and she refuses. The last time I ask, she says,

"Don't embarrass me!"


With just four months or so to go until her birthday, I'm getting a little nervous about what "three" is going to look like!

**

Molly says - after reaching the potty, "What a minute, wait a minute! There's no toilet paper!"

Oh, the drama . . .

**

The kids have been asked to watch cartoons as Keith and I eat an early supper while preparing supper for the girls. When Molly asks if she may stay, I say 'no':

"No is not nice, Mummy. No is not nice!" Molly yells angrily at me and slams the kitchen door. A minute or so later, she is back in the kitchen, I give her some of my meal and ask her to return to the living room. She leaves. This time, as she opens the kitchen door, she turns and says, "I'm sorry for bossing you, Mummy. I'm sorry for bossing you."

**

Molly has become really fascinated by volcanoes. She speaks of them often everyday. On the way back from a doctor's appointment yesterday:

"Can we see a volcano?" She asks as always.

"Yes, we can. Well, maybe not a live volcano; maybe one that has been quiet for a long time." This is my usual answer, too.

"But I want to see a scary volcano. A volcano with molten lava."

Now, it may be time to bring out the volcano kit I bought years ago.

Molly and the Middle East

I'm lying in bed with my latest book propped up against my knees. A sickly Molly is lying beside me because her illness has been concerning despite antibiotics. I'm exhausted but she's not tired.

"Molly, you need to go to sleep. I'm doing research."

She loves to "do research" with me. So, really wanting her to go to sleep, I realize I shouldn't have said this but, oh well. You can't unring a bell.

"So, tell me about that fancy pen of yours," she says, smiling up at me. It's often easy to forget that she's only two but, at this moment, the fact that she's only two has hit me. Hard.

"It's a highlighter," I explain, a sense of dread creeping up on me because I have taught her not to write in or otherwise destroy books. Could I really end up unravelling a couple of years' worth of her learning in this regard, end up changing her relationship with books?

"How does it work? How do you draw with it?"

"Well, you don't draw with it. Sometimes, in special circumstances, in special books, for special reasons like research, you use it to mark words that you want to remember."

She's really happy to learn, I think, that she may one day be able to write in books and she asks me to show her what highlighting a word actually means.

It's not a "dry" read by any means -- a memoir of travels in a Middle Eastern country -- but I can't imagine a two-year-old enjoying it or that I may be able to edit effectively as I read. But she wants me to read aloud.

"It's about a country called Iran," I tell her. "It's part of the Middle East."

"Could we travel to there?"

I pause. I don't want to tell her about visas and the difficulties one apparently encounters while trying to secure them. She is, after all, only two.

"Yes, we can one day."

She smiles and hugs me. For a moment, I imagine the two of us travelling to the far reaches of the globe together.

"We can travel there now, tho', in our imaginations. We can pretend we're there. Books help us do that. You can go all over the world by reading books."

And I start reading to her. There's really nothing obviously inappropriate in the passages I've reached thus far and, when something questionable arises, I omit it. If she notices, she doesn't let on. She listens attentively as the narrator recounts how his faith in humanity has been restored following an act of kindness by locals.

Time has stopped for a brief period. I'm no longer thinking that it doesn't feel like 8:30 at night; I no longer feel exhausted. As the story escapes my mouth and the words fall and settle between us, there's a calm sense that she and I have started something that we'll always love to do together.

Notes / A Mummy-and-Molly moment

During dinner last night, I can see from the corner of my eye that Molly is trying to get out of her booster chair. She's on her stomach, her legs dangling, and she's kind of squirmy.

"What are you doing?" I ask matter-of-factly.

"Trying to get out of my chair," she says.

"How's that going?"

"Not well."

A village tale

"Once upon a time," I began, "there was a young lady, who was very poor and very sad. She lived in a village where people always laughed and danced and were very happy."

The girls stopped playing with their bath toys and looked at me.

"She was so sad because she didn't have any friends, even though she was surrounded by so many laughing and dancing people. So, she decided to go to sleep and she slept soundly. But her dreams were interrupted by a voice that spoke to her:

'You need to go out into the village, to an inn. You will know the inn. You need to dance and laugh.'

When the sad, young lady awoke, she said:

'Oh, my, I'm hungry!'

So she changed into her tattered best clothes and headed off into the village, straying a little farther than she had ever done before. For, after all that sleep, she was feeling a little brave, too. She walked until she came to an inn. She had come to THE inn.

It was dark inside but the lady could hear the voices of people making merry. She could see some people and one person in particular caught her eye.

'Surely, he is kind,' the lady said to herself, for she had no idea that he was a prince. And when they spoke, the man told her: 'You are a princess. You have a gift. Whenever you speak, your words sound like music. We must be married.'

Oh, how her heart fluttered! And then he said . . ."

"I think he chose the wrong lady," Devyn interrupted.

"What?"

"I think she's old."