I think I’ll call him Mini Me
Katie and I are in the car on our way to pick up a couple of last-minute stocking stuffers for Luau.
She is drinking the coconut bubble tea that I just bought for her at lunch. It looks delicious. I ask for a sip. She hugs it to her chest and dramatically (and jokingly) says, “It’s mine. You can’t have any of it.”
“Hmm,” I say, “Is that so? Well, you’re mine and it’s yours, so therefore it’s actually mine.”
“You can’t own a person,” she says. “Slavery was all kinds of wrong and it’s over, so you can’t own me.”
“Fine,” I say. “But I still carried you inside my body for nine months, so I think that gives me some rights.”
“I’m still my own person,” she says.
“Yeah, well, I was itchy when I was pregnant with you,” I say, laughing. “And nauseous. Oy, was I nauseous.”
She looks at me out of the corner of one eye, takes a long draw of the bubble tea for emphasis, then issues her retort.
“Um, you gave me your anxiety issues, so I think it’s pretty safe to call it even.”
I may or may not have laughed my ass off, told her she was awesome, and then grabbed the damned bubble tea out of her hand to take my sip.