Other than that, I got nothing.

I told Grandma (yes, that Grandma) about this exchange, thinking that she and I could have a “What do men know? This is how children behave” bonding moment.

She said, “Well, you could ask your dad about it, but we just tend to think that Susan is Susan.”

Now, I am not one to say that my children are extraordinary. Not extraordinarily good or extraordinarily bad, extraordinarily smart or extraordinarily mischievous. I mean, clearly they are well above-average, but nothing is more tedious than a parent who acts as though their child was the first to ever sing the alphabet or to need seventeen timeouts in one afternoon.

But, as Susan turns four and heads off to preschool (Finally! Note to self: Never give birth in October), I’m left to wonder: What exactly makes Susan Susan?

When we visited our friends in Idaho earlier this month, I remembered many meals shared with them during which we played a game with their son called “Trick Jimmy Into Eating.” On one memorable occasion we got him to eat a chicken nugget that he didn’t exactly digest, if you know what I mean.

We have never had to play “Trick Susan Into Eating.” We play “You can have one more piece of bread and then you HAVE TO GO TO BED I MEAN IT” with Susan. My friend noticed that, of all the healthy appetites in our family, Susan’s is possibly the most healthy.

How did she put it nicely? She said: “Wow, you’re lucky that Susan’s metabolism is so good.”

When I picked up Susan after her first day of preschool, her teacher asked if she’s really left-handed. As if she were going incognito and is secretly ambidextrous. Well, we tend to think that she really is left-handed. At least, nothing we’ve tried so far has cured her. No matter the teasing, the portion-control, or the Chinese water torture, Susan still picks up her fork with her left hand.

Dick likes to say that Susan is my double in looks and temperament. To be honest, I have always thought that she might be extraordinarily good-looking. But . . . I was a headstrong, um, vocal, first child. Shouldn’t Susan, as the middle child, be put-upon and down-trodden and obssessed with calf nuts?

And should she be uttering my own favorite teenage-angst questions so early? “It’s not fair!” “You’re really mean.” “I don’t like you any more.” “You don’t understaaaaaaaaaand!”

Oh, believe me, Susan, I do understand. Life isn’t fair, Mom really is that mean, and getting meaner every year.

It would hurt my feelings if I really thought you didn’t like me any more, but since you hugged me and told me that you loved me right before asking for another piece of bread tonight, I’m sure it was just a mood you were having.

Happy Birthday! Mom loves you, and so do your sisters, and so does your dad.