Life being life and me being me, my girls often are left to their own devices.

On a particularly busy morning I had been perfecting my imitation of a chicken with it’s head cut off while listening to Jane and Clara happily playing upstairs but hadn’t actually seen them for hours.

Also, life being life and me being me, I forget things.

I forget that Jane, is still of the age where things are taken literally. For instance, her name is Jane. Not Jane Catherine. Not sweetie. Jane.

Eventually, on that crazy morning, Jane and I did cross paths.  I was letting Storm into the house and as I shooed the wet dog past her down the steps into the basement Jane looked at Storm and said in her best syrupy sweet voice: “She’s such a good dog!”

And I, proud of my little girl for happily playing and getting along with her sister all morning said: “And how about you? Are you such a good girl?”

Jane looked up, defiance and anger on her face and spat: “No. I’m Jane!”

Then she left me downstairs torn between giggling over yet another instance of Jane’s literalness and worried that I may have just received a clue as to what had been going on upstairs all morning.