Last night, my daughter and I played “jewel swap.” Jewel swap is a game where we put a bunch of crystals, rings, and pendants in a pile then take turns choosing. We have our favorites. She always goes for the giant ruby, which is a fist-sized red glass crystal. I always go for the prism crystal which used to make rainbows on the wall before it broke.
After we’ve taken all of our turns choosing, we try to make trades. I’ll give you two “rubies” for the big pink “diamond.” That kind of thing. There are some pieces of jewelry that always get traded, like the turquoise inlayed horse pendant, though it might be the only “real” stone out there. And some things are our favorites, and never get traded, no matter what. We like to test the limits, though.
“I’ll give you everything I have — EVERYTHING — for the giant red ruby.”
Even at the ripe old age of 5, she knows the sweet and satisfying thrill of turning someone down cold. “Nope.” she wriggles, beaming from ear to ear.
I shrug my shoulders, the picture of disappointment, happy to please her, “Well, I tried.”
It’s a lopsided relationship, hers and mine, and she knows it. She can pretty much trade me for anything I have, except the broken crystal. That’s mine.
So, anyway, last night, she said, “Let’s pretend that I am a jewel,” and put herself in the middle of the pile, with all of the other “rubies” and “diamonds.”
“Of course,” I said, struck by the beauty of it, of her, of all of us, really.
A few pics from last weekend down at the pond.
And one from yesterday. Snow in the morning turning to mud by the afternoon.
