Last night we were at a friend's house for dinner. When we were at the table, you ordered me to laugh. I made a laugh-like sound, but you knew it wasn't real; everyone laughed, though, because we are all silly that way.
Dad leaned over and stage-whispered in your ear, "tell Mom to laugh authentically." You smiled and bowed your head, but did not repeat the words. We waited in anticipation, holding our breath to make sure we didn't miss hearing the big word escape your lips.
Conversation moved on, but a minute or two later you quietly said, "laugh authentically." Then, in a louder, happy exclamation you said, "I found it! I found the page!" as if the word -- the moment of the whispered request was in an ever expanding memory book of words and experiences.
Later, in the car, we tried to learn the secret of what the pages of your book look like, but you couldn't exactly say--maybe you saw words or pictures, perhaps it was just the moment of the whisper. No matter what it was, these moments of metacognition took my breath away.