However, every once in a while, I see a glimpse of myself in my child.
We found her in the library (a spare bedroom where we keep our bookshelves) one afternoon like this:
she said she was organizing her series so that they were shelved together, and separating them by fiction, realistic fiction, and nonfiction.
Another day I mentioned that I needed to reorganize my oils,
and then later I found her alphabetizing them.
Speaking my love language, child.