Ruby’s grasp of language seems to have exploded in the last week. She was a sappling on Friday morning, I swear, but she somehow sprouted branches and roots in every direction by sunset, which is when she pointed out that I hadn’t asked Sam to pass the salsa please.

Polysyllabic words and multi-sentence paragraphs, combined with her unnerving attention to everything happening around her, leaves me no room to be under-the-radar imperfect. Over the weekend, she scolded me for talking with my mouth full and pointed out that I needed to stop picking my lip. “That’s a bad habit,” she said as she walked past me en route to the backyard. She didn’t slow her pace or even stop to look at me but instead used the eyes in the back of her head as she made for the door. They’ll serve her well someday, those extra eyes, but I prefer she not use them to spy on me, thank you very much. It’s like I’m living with a hall monitor.

Yesterday at the park, some kid was having a bit of a nervous breakdown just across the grass from us. Ruby shrugged her head in the direction of the outburst and asked, “What’s friggin’ happening over there?” Sam and I—thankful it wasn’t our kid shrieking about the the misfortune of spilled Goldfish—plucked the finest parenting skills from our quiver when we fell over each other laughing and asked her to please repeat herself. As if we actually wonder where she learned such a ghastly turn of phrase.

And then there was the pesky issue on Saturday of Bambi’s mother. What happened to Bambi’s mother? Where did Bambi’s mother go? Is Bambi’s mother under the snow? Each of my answers seemed to lead to another question and frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to come up with 17 different ways to explain why I don’t believe in heaven or a “rainbow bridge.” Eventually, with no exit from the question labyrinth in sight, I shrugged and told her that Bambi’s mother is living in the North Pole and will be Santa’s 10th reindeer come Christmas. Then I sang for her just to prove what I was saying:

You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen,
Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen and Bambi’s Mother…

The silence in the room was so loud, it was blinding.

The keeper moment in all of this, though, came while reading Thank You, Dr. King, a book in the Little Bill series that I’ve been reading with Ruby for two years. For the first time ever, Ruby pointed to Little Bill and said, “HEEEEEY! He has my kind of brown skin!” Then she pointed to Alice the Great. “HEEEEEY! So does Alice the great!” It was a discovery more exciting than bubbles.

“Yes, they do have your kind of brown skin,” I said, sort of holding my breath. I didn’t want to make the issue more important than she could handle, but I also wanted to avoid a ridiculous (though tempting) Easter bunny analogy.

“Your skin isn’t brown, mama,” she ran her fingers up and down my arm, tickling me. “Your skin is pink and MY skin is brown!”

“It’s true,” I said. “Though you have some pink, too. See your hands?” I took her hand, flipped it over in mine and stroked her palm. “Your palms are pink. And look at the soles of your feet. They’re pink, too. You’re lucky because you have brown and pink. And! Get this!” I moved in close and whispered in her ear. “Do you know who else has your kind of brown skin?”

She turned to look at me. “Who, mama?”

“Barack Obama!”

Her eyes got wide. “Barack OhBAH-MAHHHHH!” She yelled. I explained that Michelle and Malia and Sasha all of have her kind of beautiful brown skin. I was elated to be able to make such a positive and concrete connection. And she was elated too.

Well. Not really. Having the attention span of a gnat, she was already onto the next thing while I was staring at her in the dreamy annoying way my mother-in-law stares at my husband. I snapped out of my daze and we finished the book, just like we always do. Then we snuggled up under her favorite blanket, nose to nose, her brown arm draped over my pink neck. That is until she said, “I don’t want to smell you anymore, mama,” and she rolled to face away from me.