Kids sometimes say the darnedest things, don’t they? Just when you think you’ve heard it all, they stop you in your tracks with something hilarious, something insightful, or something incredibly wise. Today the stories I have to share with you feature two kinds of babes: a babe-by-virtue-of-being-a-baby, and a babe-by-virtue-of-being-a-gorgeous-teenager.

Babe The First: Miss Babe Ruth

This particular Babe Ruth is no baseball player – she’s my niece. Ruthie is the youngest of my four niecephews. She’s two years old, and has three older siblings: a sister and two brothers. In a family like that, if you want to be heard, you’d better come out swinging, so it’s really neat to watch Ruthie’s personality develop as she grows. When she’s not busy being loveable and huggable, she’s sassy, opinionated, persistent, and has a fascinating sense of humour.

Case in point: last weekend, Ruthie and her older sister had a sleepover at Nan and Boo’s house (my parents), then on Sunday the whole family got together for the first BBQ of the season.

At some point, my mom put a ten dollar bill and some change on the kitchen table after a trip to the store. Because of the high-traffic, kids-smashing-into-everything nature of the party, my brother thought it wise to put the money up somewhere so it wouldn’t get lost, but he got distracted as he was doing it, and couldn’t remember afterwards where he’d put Mom’s money. A long, drawn out search of the house ensued. Finally, my niece Ruthie shyly snuck into the kitchen, pulled the ten dollar bill out of her jeans pocket, and handed it to my mom.

“When Daddy said he was gonna keep the money safe, I took it so MONSTERS wouldn’t get it,” she whispered to her grandma.

Babe the Second: Miss Gwen Junior

Gwen Junior is my daughter. Two months shy of her Sweet Sixteen, she is by far my favourite person in the universe. For over a decade and a half, awesome shit has been falling out of her face:

When she was four, she accompanied her grandma to a podiatrist appointment and, thinking he could stump her (she was going through a slight know-it-all phase), the doc pointed to the model leg skeleton on his desk and asked her what a particular bone was called. Without batting an eye she replied, “sure, it’s a metatarsal!” Turns out she learned it on her LeapPad.

On her first day of grade one, I caught her singing “where oh where oh where is my backpack?” under her breath to the tune of “I Was Made For Loving You” by Kiss.

You’ve read the blog post about the time she found a syntax error on a subway poster, and you’ve read my tongue-in-cheek entry about the slang terms and expressions she uses that drive me bonkers and/or make me laugh.

But by far, the most incredible thing she’s ever said actually occurred quite recently. Earlier this month, I was down with the sickness – the flu bug that was making the rounds of the city finally caught up with me and I spent almost a week in bed wishing for death. She was a good kid while I was sick – made her own meals, didn’t push her luck, gave me an occasional hug.

One evening, I simply had to go to the store, even though I physically wasn’t up to it and should have stayed home. But we had no food, and Gwen Junior was studying (studying!!!) for an exam, so off I went. Because I was all punch-drunk on Nyquil, I accidentally left a loaf of bread on the bus, and didn’t realize it until I got home. When I discovered my loss, I burst into tears. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My wailing drew my daughter from her bedroom into the living room, where she found me standing in the doorway berating myself between sobs: “I’m so STUPID and I’m such a CRAP MOM and I CAN’T EVEN FEED MY CHILD and who even loses a loaf of bread?! Now we have no bread and I’m too sick to do anything about it so they might as well just take her away! Wahhhhh!”

Well, my fifteen year old daughter stood in front of me, hands on hips, with one eyebrow cocked in a WTF expression I know well because I see it in the mirror every day. In a stern, no-nonsense voice, she said, “hold on there just a second, and f*cking relax already. It’s just a two dollar loaf of bread. You are not a bad parent. You are certainly not stupid. You’re only saying those things because you’re feeling sorry for yourself, which I can’t blame you for, but pity parties don’t help anyone. But you’re right about not being able to feed me, so take a breath, sit down there on the couch, and I’ll bring you some of the soup I just made. You feed me every day. Today I’ll feed you.”

Sure, she dropped an F-bomb. Sure, she reprimanded her mother, which normally she wouldn’t have gotten away with. But her glass-half-full, take-a-chill-pill attitude stopped me in my tracks. She’s absolutely right, I thought. This is not an insurmountable crisis. And besides, I won’t lie… it was WONDERFUL to be taken care of.

Out of the mouths of babes…