"A bouncy ball." Lulie pokes a mole below my collar bone. "A bouncy ball."
"Don't." I shoo her chubby finger.
Poke. "A tiny bouncy ball."
"Honey don't, that hurts."
"A bouncy ball," she chimes, finger pointed.
I cover the nubby, "Lucy."
"When I be a woman," she says, "I will have a bouncy ball too."
And like the long sigh, the nervous hum, the occasional sniff, my children gather my flaws and call them perfect.