Thursday, April 07, 2005

Wild Yams (Not to Be Confused with Wild Grapes)

Having an eight-year old in the house is like having a free subscription to the Comedy Channel, without the F-word. My daughter flitted through the kitchen this morning in all her blonde glory. She stopped at the fridge to peruse the shopping list for the health food store (to which she had previously added the words "Hot fudge" and "Caramel"). With a shriek, she told me there was no way in the world I could force her to eat wild yam. "Okay," I responded, "It's not for you. Why won't you eat wild yam?" "It's gross!" She wailed. "Alana, do you know what wild yam is?" I asked her, knowing she wasn't a big tuber fan, but thinking her response was a little off the charts." "No." "Well, what do you think it is?" "It's some kind of wild cow." I disabused her of her notion, and we both laughed. Relating the incident to her father, his response was that passion without information runs in the family. How true. What endears her to me the most, though, isn't that she's a cheap laugh (though she is with high frequency), but that she can laugh at herself. That's a gift from God not many people have. Too often my pride gets in the way of realizing what everyone else already knows about me: I am quite ridiculous. Today I will try to take a page from my bright one's book and sail through life filled with zest, able to laugh at the silliest of things--me.

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