We had sleepover company for Shabbat, friends who have moved a few states north. Their daughter, D, was Miss M’s first real friend–we got them together at least twice a week. They still play well together, if by “play,” you mean harass the adults in their lives into reading every Curious George book (classic and otherwise) in our library.

Miss M was very excited to wake up on Friday morning and see D sleeping in her room. “Ema,” she stage whispered as she sat on the potty, “D is my best friend.” 

They were chatting as I herded them into the living room and went to see about their breakfast. “Ema,” Miss M called after me. “I didn’t nurse yet. I want to nurse.” Then she turned to D, who did nurse as a baby but is now three and very attached to the more traditional milk of preschoolers, and offered, “Do you want to nurse too?”

(Uh. At least her heart was in the right place.)

After Shabbat, D’s parents packed up to head for her grandparents’ house in New Jersey, and our kids got ready for bed. Miss M, as her parting gift, gave D a hug and one of her recently trademarked, inappropriately intimate open-mouthed kisses. Reserved only for really good friends and blood relatives.