My daughter and I stood on the back deck working on the never-ending honey-do list. I stood on the picnic table bench about to drill into the stucco back wall. A carpenter bee flew from underneath the picnic table. They’d found themselves a home in the table, and despite puttying the holes, they kept coming back.
Seeing the carpenter bee fly by her, my four-year-old stopped me in my tracks.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Molly.”
“You know, I love Mommy more than carpenter bees love wood!”
I took her words in, shaking my head at their simplicity and their philosophical depth. It may not be iambic pentameter, but it certainly gives Shakespeare a run for his money.