I beamed with pride this morning in a way that only a parent can. Did M hit a home run? Nope. Run a four minute mile? Nah. Even better.
I prepped M's lunch and snack for camp last night. When she came downstairs for breakfast, they sat on the counter. Her lunch was in her lunchbox and her snack was in a brown paper bag. I rummaged through the refrigerator, getting M's breakfast, while Margot examined her snack bag.
"Mama," she said, trying to get my attention. "MAMA."
"Yes?" I asked, my head still buried in the fridge, looking for the cream cheese.
"This snack bag is wrong," she said. "It says 'Margot snack.' There should be an apostrophe S at the end. Margot's snack. The snack belongs to me. I am not the snack."
She was right! I did write "Margot snack" on the bag.
As a writer/editor, nothing makes me happier than hearing her point out grammatical errors.
(Well, unless she gets into the Scripps Spelling Bee. That's my secret dream for her.)