One morning after breakfast, I was standing at the counter washing dishes and Anna crawled under the kitchen table.
She looked up at the underside of the table and asked, “What’s this, Mommy?”
I answered her broadly, not sure if she was asking about the base of the table or pointing at a screw or maybe even some remnants of a dinner of yore, smeared on the underside of the table by one of her siblings.
Like the proper toddler she is, Anna didn’t accept my broad, dismissive answer.
“Who made this, Mommy?” she persisted.
“Um. Some workers did,” I answered.
“How? How did they make it?” she asked.
“How did the workers make it? Um. They used tools,” I said, wondering how far down the carpentry path she was going to drag me.
“I KNOW!” She said, popping her head up from under the table. “God made it! AND GOD MADE ME!”