So Kate and I are walking to the grocery store to pick out a cake mix because she wants to make cupcakes…
Kate: “I am going to give one to Amanda. She likes cupcakes. And she likes me.”
Me: “I think she likes me, too. I’m her aunt. She was the flower girl at my wedding.”
Kate: “Okay. She likes me AND you. But not the boys.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Amanda’s not married.”
I can guess what’s coming. I can see the gears turning in her head as if her ears were windows.
Kate: “When Amanda gets married, I can be her flower girl.”
Me: “But she has other little girl cousins. Fiona. Zoe. She might pick one of them instead.”
A dreadful look crosses her face. They’re not cousins anymore. They’re the COMPETITION.
She starts spluttering reasons why she would make a much better flower girl than either of them. “I’m big. They’re too little. None one wants a little bitty flower girl.” There are not, apparently, words sufficient to express their unsuitability for the post. She is reduced to vile glances and brusque gestures.
Me (unable to resist): “Actually, Fiona is the same age Amanda was when she was my flower girl.”
She sniffs disdainfully.
