"Let's just say that today at school, I was so excited that they had chicken sandwiches for lunch."
"I know you want me to clean my room, Mom, but let's just say that cleaning my room is the last think I want to do right now."
"When I was out at recess, the craziest thing happened. Let's just say that Jett asked me if I would be his girlfriend. I know, it was so embarrassing. I looked at him and, well, let's just say I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Jett, I don't like you that way. Let's just say we'll be friends."
(To understand this next one, you have to realize that at our house, we refer to passing gas as "tooting.")
As we walked into church the other day, Superkid coughed. I responded automatically, "Cover your cough, please."
She looked up at me and asked, "Okay, but do you want me to cover my toots, too? Because one of those just slipped out while I was coughing."
Superkid's favorite new word: "Literally." As in:
"I literally do not understand why I have to do homework right now."
"Before I got on the bus, I literally had to go to the bathroom really, really badly."
"There are literally no socks in my sock drawer. Literally."
We were shopping at Target. As I wheeled the car past the women's clothing section, a rack of sweater vests caught my eye. They looked oh-so-very-hip for fall. I was smitten, drawn towards them by an unseen force. Justone and Superkid were with me, and were extremely concerned as they saw my hand reaching out towards the sweaters. "Don't get that, Mom," Justone warned me. "I don't like it."
"Yeah," Superkid chimed in, "Me too. I don't like it."
Since neither of them likes tomatoes, either, I ignored them and put the sweater on to see how it looked in a nearby mirror. Justone shielded his eyes. Superkid groaned. I looked in the mirror and groaned a little myself. "Nevermind," I said aloud, removing the sweater. "I guess I don't want it."
Superkid rolled her eyes. "Mom, if you had just listened to us, you would have known you shouldn't get that sweater. Let's just say it's just not your style."
"It's definitely not your style," Justone agreed. "It's ugly."
"Just how do you two know what my style is?" I asked, slightly put out.
"Oh, we know, Mom, we definitely know," Superkid said seriously, folding her arms across her chest. "And I think we know better than you do."
By now, two women nearby had discreetly moved more closely towards us. They were obviously all ears to our conversation. I was beginning to be more than a little offended by my six-year-old's claims. "Oh, really?" I queried archly. "And just how do you suppose you have a better idea of my style than I do, hmmmm?"
"Because I remember what it says on your style card," Superkid replied matter-of-factly. "Which I'm pretty sure you've forgotten."
"My style card? What style card?" I demanded.
Superkid sighed, and patiently began to explain. "Let's just say, that before we are born on Earth as babies, while we are living in Heaven, we get our style cards. We go to one of the stores there, in Heaven, and we pick out the style card we want. It tells us everything we need to know about our style. They are all different. Then, we get born, and we start to forget things. Most adults," she looked pointedly at me, "have completely forgotten what their style cards say. But kids usually still remember because we haven't been away from Heaven so long. And that is why sometimes we really, really want to wear things that you say don't match. They are on our style cards. And I remember that that sweater--" she pointed accusingly "--is not on your style card."
I couldn't argue with that. But I did ask, "Superkid, how in the world did you learn all that?"
Superkid replied solemnly, "I prayed about it. More than once. And that was my answer."
So let it be written, so let it be done.