My oldest daughter Memphis came bounding into the car after her girls’ Bible study class Sunday morning. I braced myself for the flood of words that were bound to follow.

“How was class?”

“It was great! I did not talk.”

I squinted at her.

“Well, I mean, I did talk, but not when I was supposed to. I mean when I wasn’t supposed to. What I mean is I did not bark like a dog like one girl or shriek like one of the other girls. The teacher asked me where we lived, and I told her we didn’t live anywhere.”

I squinted at her. One point for not barking. Minus one for letting the Sunday school teacher think we live in a car.

“Then she asked where I used to live, and I told her that my dad was in the Navy, and we lived in Virginia until we drove to Arizona, and we’re moving to Japan this summer. She asked where we live, and I told her we don’t have a house…”

“Memphis…”

“I mean I DID tell her we don’t have our OWN house right now. Not until we get to Japan.”

“Did you tell her we were staying at Grammy and Papa’s house.”

“Yes. Oh, and she asked if I was from California because she said my new haircut looked kind of like a California girl. I told her I was not from California but I had lived in California before, at Camp Pendleton, and then…”

I nodded and said a silent prayer for that teacher. 

This is up there with the time my youngest daughter Cora Jo introduced me to her kindergarten teacher during open house: “Mrs. K, this is my birthmother.” I nearly choked while I stuttered through an explanation about how her brother is adopted, but she is not, and….*big sigh* While we don’t have a house right now, and I am technically Cora’s birthmother, sometimes I wonder if we need a little Communications 101 course around here. Heavens.