One of my twins makes a point of showing me every single chocolate chip he discovers in his banana muffins. Whether I’m reading the Bible out loud at the breakfast table, praying for our day, making the beds, or putting dishes in the dishwasher, he runs up to me with a toothy grin and a chocolate chip pinched between his sticky fingers, stretches up to his tiptoes, and strains it up towards my face.
“Ah!” he says. “Shalk-ock-ship!” he sputters.
The first time it happens in the day, I smile back at him and exclaim along with him, “A chocolate chip! All for you!”
He grins even wider and then runs back to his seat to eat some of his muffin and search for another hunk of chocolate.
As breakfast wears on, my smiles stretch less and less, and my exclamation changes into something more ho-drum. “Yes, a chocolate chip,” immediately followed by, “Now go back to your seat.”
Children have this innate ability and even desire for repetition. The other twin would play with toy trucks and cars all day if his siblings never requested a new basket of toys. The three of them rotate through the same Little Bear episodes week after week during their hour of screen time. They eat peanut butter smiley faces daily for lunch.
As for me, I tire of French toast after a week. I groan when my children bring me the same picture book to read instead of the new ones I just bought them. It seems as if peek-a-boo could last a lifetime. When my oldest requests to wear the same shirt to church over and over again, I reluctantly hang the others up.
Yet this is supposedly maturity, right?
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