“Mommy, look, the sky is all blue and white,” my first-born says a decade ago while buckled in her booster seat in the back of the car on the way to preschool.
I glance in the rear-view mirror and see her stretching her neck to see more sky, the sun splashing on her little brunette bob haircut that frames her face like Dora the Explorer, her favorite back then.
“Yeah, those clouds sure are fluffy aren’t they? I wish I could have one as my pillow,” I say.
“Me, too,” she says.
“How do you think we might get one?” I ask.
“Hmmmmmm. I think I might need my stool,” she says.
“Hmmmmmm. I think so, too. I say.
Apparently the latest New Year’s trend is to choose a word of the year instead of resolutions that set us up for failure. So I’ve decided—in honor of that inquisitive little moment of infinite possibilities lodged in my memories and recorded in my journal—that my word of the year is going to be Hmmmmmm.
