When I drive Ruby to “school” in the morning, I barely make it three blocks from the house before I can’t resist the urge to tilt my rearview mirror to reflect only her face. Seeing out the rear window is quite overrated, especially when I can look at the  silvery eyes of my child as I safely drive 80mph the speed limit down the highway. Anyway, I have two side mirrors that compensate just fine.

As I took my exit this morning, I glanced up at the mirror, seeking the shimmer that I had gone an entire 4-seconds without. Ruby’s eyes didn’t meet mine. She had pulled her thumb out of her mouth, cocked her head back and was loudly sucking air through her perfectly flared, booger-crusted nostrils. As she exhaled, she lowered her head to look at me and said, “My smelling you, mama.”

“What, honey?” I asked her.

She did it again: Head back, eyes to the roof, dramatic breath in through her nose, mouthy exhale and, “My smelling you, mama!”

“You’re smelling me?”

“Uh-hunh.”

“Do I smell good or bad?”

“Good. You bath.”

“Yes, babe. Mama took a bath. Maybe you should consider doing the same, honey.”