The Country Mice

I love my little girl.

She is smart, kind, sweet and loving.

She is also a lunatic.

This one I get.

He’s bright, he’s analytical, he likes Scrabble and he adores Rick Mercer.

But this one?

I look at her sometimes and wonder, “Where did you come from?”

Who are you? What ancestral spirit resides within you?

Are you my irrepressible grandfather who painted a sparrow yellow to convince someone it was a canary?

Are you Gord’s rebellious great-grandmother who took her dead husband’s wooden leg and stuffed it in the trash can?

Are you an unspeakable by-product of the Montessori school system?

Was it the champagne I sipped three days before you were born?

*gasp*  Are you even mine?

Nicholas told me the other day we were lucky to have her.

Because she makes us laugh.

I think I’ll try to remember that one, even after the DNA tests prove I’m not her bio-mother.

Just because she makes me laugh.