Genetically Rock Crazy

Being rock crazy is genetic, I swear.  My own daughter always has one.  They are in little piles by every door.  They are in every bag.  They are presented to me for safekeeping.  Small altercations can be started over who spied one first, even.  And pockets are filled with them.  If you have laundry duty you absolutely must remove rocks from pockets.  If not, you will have to rescue them from the clanging dryer later!

On one such occasion, I heard a perfectly egg shaped rock destroying the inside of the dryer, and removed it from the Kenmore.  It was quite pretty actually.  Small, perfectly rounded, white and sparkly.  My daughter had quite a fit when she saw I had it.  We were going out, so I tossed it in my purse to keep her quiet.

As I pushed her through the store in the front of the shopping cart, I noticed her mouth was very full of something!  I held out my hand and said, “Spit it out”.  She spit the white egg rock from my purse into my hand.  I spelled out all the arguments for why she should never put rocks in her mouth.  They can be dirty!  You can choke, etc.   And she fixed those fierce blue eyes on me and said, “You washed it.  It’s clean.”  Then she smiled and said, “It is for you.  It looks beautiful”.  I'll take it.  Flowers die after all.