It all began as we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, me fixing Amanda's fine, blonde hair. I was putting in the final elastic of a spunky pair of ponytails and finished with, "I love you, Amanda."
"And, I love you," she replied.
"Oh, yeah," I taunted. "Well, I love you more."
Her eyes lit up as she recognized the cue for the start of another "I love you more" match. "Nuh-uh," she laughed, "I love you the most."
"I love you bigger than a volcano!" I countered—a favorite family phrase in these battles of love.
"But, Mom, I love you from here to China," she said, a country she's learning about thanks to our new neighbors up the street.
We volleyed back and forth a few favorite lines. "I love you more than peanut butter." "Well, I love you more than television." "I even love you more than bubble gum."
It was my turn again, and I made the move that usually brings victory. "Too bad, chickadee. I love you bigger than the universe!"
On this day, however, Amanda was not going to give up. I could see she was thinking. "Mom," she said in a quiet voice, "I love you more than myself."
I stopped. Dumbfounded. Overwhelmed by her sincerity. Here I thought that I knew more than she did. I thought I knew at least everything that she knew. But I didn't know this. My four-year-old daughter knows more about love than her twenty-eight-year-old mom. And somehow she loves me more than herself.
Christie A. Hansen
Contributing author, Chicken Soup for the Soul
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