The van was warm from sitting in the sun as I drove through the parking lot of Trader Joe's. I leaned my head against the seat rest and navigated through narrowed eyes. In the seat behind mine, my three-year-old was singing a medley of some sort, about vanilla and pineapples and other stuff that sounded vaguely like it might make a good mixed drink.

"Mommy? What is my speciality?" She struggled with 'speciality' her voice rising and cracking on the final ee.

"Oh, uh, huh." I wasn't focused in on what she was saying. "You are good at lots of things, sweetie."

"Mommy? What is your speciality?"

I thought for a minute and swung into a parking space. Sliding the shifter into park, I engaged the parking break and spoke into the rear view mirror, holding my daughter's gaze with my own.

"I like to tell stories!" I offered.

"Oh, you mean you are a liar." She said, thoughtfully.

Oy. No, no. That's not what I meant at all. At least I didn't tell her I like to blog. She probably would have called me a geek.