I was weeding the garden, and Noah was pitching baseballs against the back of the house. I wanted some help, so I assumed my best "Tom Sawyer white washing the fence" tone of voice and said, "Wow, this is sure fun! I love pulling out weeds. The roots are coming out and everything! Good times." One-year-old Noah would have been sitting right next to me, watching and probably pulling some grass to chew. Two-year-old Noah would have toddled over and done his best. Three-year-old Noah would have asked five thousand questions about weeds, plants, worms, dirt, why this and why that. Four-year-old Noah would have been pulling weeds with all his heart. Five-year-old Noah would have shown Sarah how to do it while doing it himself. Six-year-old Noah would have encouraged all his friends to pull weeds along with him. Seven-year-old Noah would have wanted to have a contest to see who could pull the most weeds in a minute. But what did my eight-year-old say from all the way across the yard? "Yeah, nice try, Mom."
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