On a recent, rather hot evening, Cait and I were waiting in the air-conditioned car while Andrew volunteered to get everyone ice cream cones. We’d all just finished hitting a bucket of golf balls at the driving range.

Andrew, interested in getting Cait good enough at golf to become a golfing buddy, had been trying to get her to the driving range to practice her swing. Lately, all she’s been interested in is challenging either me or Andrew to badminton matches in the back yard. To save myself from yet another badminton game, I volunteered to go to the driving range. Lesser of the two evils, I thought.

Andrew just rolled his eyes, because while I’m actually quite good at badminton, I stink at golf. Cait thought the idea sounded like great fun. She could simultaneously laugh at her mother’s ridiculous swing while showing off her own pretty decent one. But I surprised everyone, including myself, by connecting with more than one golf ball to send it flying.

While we were sitting in the car waiting for Andrew to return, Cait offered, “Mom, you were really great tonight.”

“Yeah, not bad,” I said. “You were pretty good, yourself.”

“Pretty good?” Cait mugged. “Don’t you mean perfect?”

“Nope. I think your shirt says it.” I pointed to the printing on her tee shirt, which she’d just gotten from a school trip to see Mary Poppins on Broadway. It said “Practically Perfect.”

Cait zinged back, “That’s just a warning label, Mom.”