At church on Sunday, after Leah had tired of drawing in her notebook, she sat back in our pew and began fiddling with her hands. Minutes later she lifted her fist high in the air, her middle finger erect. I cupped my hand over hers and whispered, “Leah, don’t do that.”
“Why, Mom?” she asked.
“Because it’s not nice.”
“But, Mom,” she said. “It’s my longest finger.”
How could I reason with that?
“Yes, Sweetie. It sure is,” I said. “Just keep it to yourself.”
So for the rest of sacrament meeting she admired her middle finger, the longest of all, from the safety of her little lap.