A conversation with M- and D-: I see your unbeatable strength, and raise you my imagination

While setting up a sort of industrial-strength collapsible steel bin in the garage yesterday, I stood on it so I could reach each of the sides at once. My 7-year-old son D- and 4-year-old daughter M- were immediately shocked that this device could EVEN hold up DAD!

I informed them that it could probably hold up an elephant, since it's made of centimeter-thick hardened steel bars crisscrossed in a grid of one-inch squares, supported by large, thick, solid-steel feet. I made the mistake of adding, for effect, that they couldn't break it if they tried.

They immediately took this as a personal challenge, and sought to undermine it the only way they knew how.

D- (conversationally): Well, the Incredible Hulk, if he was here, he could just SMASH it like that. Right?

Me (distracted): Sure, I guess... since he's not real, and they can make up anything they want about him.

D- (strangely triumphant): Yeah, so he could...

M- (looking to contribute): And they made up that he's the strongest guy in the whole world... so HE could break this if he wanted to, but we couldn't.

D- (exultant, but now totally off topic): HE could break ANYthing... he's so awesome. ERRRRRRGGHHH...

M-: Yeah!

This went on for a few more idle minutes. Meanwhile, thoroughly put in my place, I continued to feebly assemble this contraption as their own personal ball- and toy-storage bin. And of course, I then had to lay down for a few hours to regain what meager strength I manage to muster each day.

Future careers of my daughter's preschool class

At the preschool graduation for my daughter's school yesterday (as an underclasswoman, she was just there for moral support, I guess), the teachers announced to the gym each graduate's answer to the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Here are some of their actual answers:

1. Race car driver

2. Doctor

3. Batman

4. Teacher

5. Police officer/Firefighter

6. Army guy

7. Dentist

8. Spider-Man

9. A doctor AND a teacher*

10. A Mommy

I'm pretty sure that last one was planted, to squeeze a few extra tears out of the audience. Nevertheless, I noted a distinct lack of willing candidates for Equally Necessary Jobs like the following:

1. Systems analyst

2. Septic tank cleaner

3. Telemarketer

4. Import/export facilitator

5. Cat burglar

6. Lounge singer/DJ

7. Local politician

8. Hustler

9. Tabloid photographer

10. Racehorse euthanizer

I hope most of these kids are headed for a junior high epiphany resulting in a slight change of career path, because otherwise we may be facing a hell of a lot of very bitter, disillusioned telemarketers/gravediggers.

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* This one's the kid who couldn't decide if he should go for impressing the chicks or kissing up to the teacher, so he went for both. Sounds like the winner to me!

Classic quotes, Vol. 15

Here is a selection of recent quotes from my 5-year-old son D-, 2-year-old daughter M-, my wife J-, and me:

M- (out of the blue, answering J-'s generic question about whether she's excited to grow up): Yes, I want to get bigger so I can wear a bwah!*

Me (squinting without glasses in the shower as I speak to the kids with an accusatory but unsurprised tone, pointing right by my foot): Hey guys, is that poop?? (picking it up) ...Oh, no, it's just a tiny carrot peel and a bunch of brown thread.**

M- (smiling as she tastes a jar of banana puree I found in the cabinet from the days before she could offer such eloquent food criticism): This has a good fway-vor!

D- (as a deep-voiced Incredible Hulk, apparently learning to channel his powers into productive areas): ... I would ask some workers about knocking down an old building, then I'd say, 'I'm The Green Hulk!' and smash it down to pieces! Smash it to pieces for them with punching!!

M- (holding a piece of butterfly-printed fabric around herself): I have a butterfly belt, cause I'm a butterfly! ...pirate.

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* I have a troubled feeling she's going to stay ahead of the curve into adulthood, bringing home bounties of drama and strife every day from third grade on.

** I ended up forgetting it on the shelf of the shower, so a bleary-eyed J- got to share the pleasure of the same dilemma the next morning.

Classic quotes, Vol. 14

Here are the latest quotes from my 5-year-old son D-, 2-year-old daughter M-, my wife J-, and me:

J- (after awakening me with a confused snooze-button smack to the face when her alarm, on the other side of the bed, went off at 5am): Oh, I didn't know you were there.

D- (as if he's proposing something fun for me): Dad, you wanna watch a kid movie? It's been a few days since yesterday when we watched Curious George with Momma.

J-'s student (after J- removed her glasses to rub her eyes): Geez, Mrs. --, you're really pretty without your glasses!*

D- (as Spider-Man, while holding a cordless phone to his ear): Dad, you've got to feel my muscle... (remembering the game he was already playing, turning toward the phone) Hold on, Batman.

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* Explanation from J-: "This happened in a moment of much-needed relaxation, as I was pretending the children and the rest of the world don't exist, but then they once again interrupted me rudely to prove that they do."

A robotic family portrait

Since I know that pictures have been few and far between for a long while, I thought I'd share with you all this intimate family portrait, with members represented according to my 2-year-old daughter M-'s remarkably consistent series of dramatic scenarios over the past several weeks:

Spoiling his long-held secret identity, I'll admit that the fellow on your left up there is my dad, whom the kids call Dado (DAH-doh) in the Irish custom. On the right, in an uncanny representation right down to the giant titanium claw hand, is my mom, whom the kids call Grammair, similar to the French title.

Now, the two in the middle are harder to pin down. The lady on the left was originally employed as my 5-year-old son D-, with the smallest (grown male) figure representing M- herself, but, I believe over D-'s one-time objection, at a certain point she began identifying herself instead as the (bipedal, clothed rat-) woman, with D- then played by that man a fraction of "M-'s" size.

I'm thinking that the size/power upgrade was a big reason why she didn't mind abruptly changing the conventions of her personal game to suit the whims of her bystander brother, who's as prone to ranting power-trips these days as she has always been to squeezing someone's face with her fingernails until they stop saying whatever it is she objects to, such as, "what [she] should do."

To explain the likely disappointing, for you, lack of my wife and I in this portrait, I get the sense M- herself is the Momma in her games, and I imagine I'm not usually given any inanimate representation because I represent myself so well in that state throughout her waking hours. I am omnipresent and omnisomnolent.*

But it's our (virtual) loss, I assure you. Because oh, what fun this crew has, day in, day out... almost as much fun as my wife J- had before she was formally introduced, trying to figure out one night after bedtime what in the world M- was talking about when she was crying for her to "go find M- and D-... I want you to bring me M- and D-!"

The answer J- would have given, had she been up to speed on the fast-changing world of Imagination Games that is our afternoons around here, is that M- and D- were not available that night because they were still unconscious inside a shoe under the coffee table after Dado shot them in the face with a giant web-missile while attempting to pass the sugar cubes at teatime.

You know, the usual disfunctional family hijinks. Plus robots.

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* Don't feel bad if you don't recognize that word, because I'm pretty sure I just built it right this moment, and I love it.

Awkward moments, Vol. 1

As an antidote to all those ubiquitous Precious Moments things, here are a few of the most Awkward Moments my children have seen fit to drag me into, just in the past week and a half.

Please note that while I include the word "loudly" in all three entries, I'm sure you know I had no need to mention it even once.

1. While enduring an excessively long checkout process at the store, my 2-year-old daughter M- loudly pointed out that supermodel Giselle Bunchen, posing effectively in the nude on the cover of this month's Vanity Fair, had no shirt on, before speculating that "the lady [was] going to take a shower, probably," and then following up in graphic detail with all the steps she would be taking next.

2. Walking by a woman carrying her child with a beautiful (and probably very expensive) head of cornrows, M- and her 5-year-old brother D- said hi, each referring to the child as a different sex (due to this apparently unfamiliar hairstyle and ambiguous clothing colors), and then they began loudly debating whether it was a boy or a girl, including the heretofore uncharted territory of a "boy-girl".*

3. Just days before the normally large Immigration Rally here in Chicago, and in the midst of all this swine flu nonsense, a Hispanic busboy** began clearing our table while we were gathering up our supplies to leave a local pizza pub, and the kids coincidentally decided to start very loudly chanting the refrain from one of their recent favorite books (Gotta Go by Sam Swope): "Gotta go to Mexico!!"

Luckily for us, neither of them were frowning or pointing at the time they issued this grammatically ambiguous statement/command.

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* For the record, I had been 99% sure it was a girl until I heard these two arguing. I don't feel too badly about this uncertainty, given the number of times D- was misidentified as a girl in his first 2 years of life, and the handful of times M- was as a boy, but if anyone ever thought either was a boy-girl/girl-boy, they had the decency to keep it to themselves.

** Seems a demeaning job title, considering that the guy is at least 40. But "Busman" just sounds like a really, really low-budget superhero. Like Batman if he wasn't a billionaire. Guy's gotta get around somehow, right?

I am the hero I've been waiting for

Though he may be a whole 5 years old now, my son D- is more importantly a man in training, and following that storied tradition, he constantly asserts his superiority in every way over almost everything he looks at, hears of, or thinks of, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

So I walk a fine line every time I'm challenged on strength, speed, intelligence, agility, or proficiency in many of the world's most inane activities.

I don't think it's healthy to completely disillusion and demoralize him, but I think it's equally unhealthy for me to set him up for any harder of a fall than he's already due when released into the wilds of full-time school next year.

I mean, a kid needs all the confidence, whether completely off base or not, that he can get in this world. So if he starts out thinking HE'S the strongest man in the world, instead of me, then that just gives him a leg up over all the other boys, right?

Here's a conversation snippet, issued out of the blue while walking through the library, from the kid who's told me (verbatim) more than once, "I know Everything. Not everything-everything, but I know Everything," just minutes before and after asking me entries in that day's long list of questions about how the world works at the most fundamental of levels:

D-: I'm even stronger than you.

Me: Yeah?

D-: I'm so strong, that if there was a robot, up in space, and I was up in space? One punch, and he'd be dead. If I punched a big robot one time, he'd be dead.

...I'm thinking that "leg up" just may land him upside down in a cafeteria garbage can one day. Maybe I should grab his ankles and wrists with one hand and hoist him helplessly into the air like a safari prize more often while I still can.

We all know this world is nothing if not humbling, and I've always found a steady diet much easier to take than the sudden compulsory feast days that are one's only alternative. So I suppose I'll have to take it upon myself to begin a campaign of careful destruction and reconstruction of his ego, via the most fun, ridiculously lopsided competitions I can think of.

And once he turns 10? Then, my friend, we move on to a crash course in Trash Talk 101 delivered by the one true master greater than Shakespeare, Da Vinci, Jordan, and your mom combined.*

---

* I mean me.

Important Question: Jesus Claus?

The latest Important Question is a straightforward but timely one, though not nearly as important as the last one.

For those readers who are religious*, I respectfully ask the following:

Do you find that as your kids mature, the inevitable revelations about Santa Claus undermine or strengthen your teachings about God/Allah/Yahweh, even if you didn't take much of a part in this particular cultural/quasi-religious tradition?

This occurs to me every year, but I've never been in a situation where I could ask it with any hope of getting a thoughtful answer. I've just never imagined a way to teach a child about God and Santa/the Easter Bunny without setting up a significant crisis around age 8-10 or even earlier.

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In case the above question is too deep for you, answer this question instead: Who would win in a fight, Jesus or Santa Claus? (And I don't mean a wimpy South-Park-style fight, I mean a genuine, few-holds-barred brawl.)

Ground rules: No reindeer, no hitting below the belt, and no resurrections.

Keep in mind that while Jesus of course has some notable powers and one heck of a tag-team partner, Santa clearly has supersonic speed, incredible stamina, and the ability to change his shape and size at will.

The comment board is now open-- discuss either question, or both, at will!

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* I myself come from Catholic stock, mostly Irish immigrants, but I've only ever attended church for weddings, christenings, and the occasional funeral/communion/confirmation.

Dalai Lama to wreak havoc, world is warned

Urgent Notice from the Chinese Government:
The People's Republic of China humbly wishes to make the world aware of a potentially serious though unpredictable epidemic of mayhem threatening to sweep all nations of the Earth:

The so-called Dalai Lama, seen here yanking an opponent's beard to move his face into optimal head-butting range (his devastating finishing move of choice), has secretly been training the most deadly non-violent army the world has ever seen, according to reliable sources inside the Chinese government.

Anyone encountering this disarming renegade, who should be thought of as not unlike an Evil Batman, is encouraged to quickly shave his beard, if any, strike a defensive judo crouch, and prepare to absorb a vicious full-body assault.

Do not be dissuaded by any devious entreaties of peace, friendship, or primal enlightenment. Respond to any moment of weakness with a judicious blend of blows to the face, neck, and torso.

Capture of this sinister vigilante will be met with a reward up to and including the eternal gratitude of the P.R.C. government and the future true Dalai Lama. In lieu of gratitude, reward may be payable in U.S. dollars, toilet paper, or forgiveness of debts already held.

END TRANSMISSION

Next up: Aquaman, The Czech Republic

This just goes to show you that stupid people exist in all countries of the world, and frivilous lawsuits are one of America's last remaining exports:

Batman's Latest Archenemy: Batman, Turkey

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The mayor of Batman, a small oil-producing town in Turkey, has filed suit against The Dark Knight director Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros., the studio behind the record-shattering blockbuster, looking for a cut in the film's royalties in exchange for using the city's name without permission.

---

As the article points out, where have these people been for the past 70 years? I'm pretty sure no one's confusing Batman movies with travelogues for Turkey, and furthermore, I bet that town has made at least millions in tourism dollars from college students alone diverting their backpacking trips just to go through there and snatch up whatever they can get their hands on to take back home.

So that includes more than a few street signs and a couple giant Welcome billboards... is that such a high price to pay for having one of the coolest city names in the world?

My son the Arch-Villain

Ladies and gentlemen, in the interest of all our safety, I feel compelled to inform you that I have reason to believe my 4-year-old son may in fact be the next in a long line of supervillains. And not necessarily one of the campy kinds.

Just look at this ferocious face he was making in the picture for this recent post:
If I hadn't otherwise suspected his secret identity, I'm pretty sure my suspicions would have been raised by his frequent claims to being an evil figure, whether specific or not. He has been Captain Hook (a LOT) and "black Spider-Man (I've never been clear where he found out about Venom), but generally he just declares himself (in a comically deep and menacing voice) to be "a BAAAAAD guyyyyy!" or sometimes "a BAD [insert random but dramatic action word] guy!"

While he also does the same thing with much more mundane figures, such as "I'm a crane guy!", "I'm a cooker guy!", or "I'm a garbage man!", he definitely tends more towards the dastardly side.

On top of that, at many a breakfast time, when asked what he'd like to eat, he seems to begin wildly threatening people with something called "pain-cakes".

Finally, to settle any remaining dispute, I recently found this behind the couch, and to quote Dave Barry, I swear I am not making this up:
I'm assuming the green rope, at least, is made largely of Kryptonite.

Poor bastard never stood a chance.

A conversation with D-: I believe you can't fly

The following is an impromptu conversation with my 4-year-old son D-, which took place the other day as we walked down the alley on the way to the library:

D-: I can't fly right now.

Me: Oh yeah?

D-: But when I'm 5, or maybe when I'm 10, then I'll be able to fly right through the sky!

Me: I'm older than that-- can I fly?

D- (thinking): No, you just have to hold on to my heels.

Me: Ahh... nice.

D-: Cause I'm like a train up in the sky!

You know, it's high time they came up with a name for those.

Conan the Ungrateful

One thing you have to adjust to when you become a parent is the complete lack of appreciation for what is essentially your indentured servitude. Whenever you get too down about it, though, just remember how much you enjoyed yourself as a kid living on the other side of the coin.

In case you weren't blessed with such luck, I guess all I can say is Tough Nuts, man. That's just how the ball bounces.

Case in point: Recently, I was taking advantage of naptime by trying to catch up on several weeks' worth of episodes of Conan O'Brien on our DVR, when D- wandered out of his room. He sat next to me on the couch, as transfixed by the TV as he usually is when allowed to watch.

Then, remembering what had occupied at least 5 full minutes of my time before I could physically move across the room to sit down, I took the opportunity to keep him from becoming too spoiled* by pointing out that I had done him a big favor while he was sleeping.

Me: Did you see? I cleaned up all the toys for you.

D- (absentmindedly, without even turning his head from the TV): What toys?

Me: (audible shudder of resigned frustration)


* And to sharpen my future skills as a grandmother.

Just a little sleight of heel

I have reason to believe my daughter is a computer prodigy at the tender age of 1.

As this blog and my job history (as well as, among others, my wife, my family, casual acquaintances, and anyone sitting in my house throughout a typical day who's capable of understanding how a clock works) can attest, I've put in the time to become much more than familiar with the ways of a computer.

I live for shortcuts and for new ways to make my life easier and therefore less meaningful. I have spreadsheets of useful Alt codes and other keyboard/mouse combinations that can work miracles and wow the uninitiated, but I generally don't need them, because my inexplicable feeling of need leaves my brain wide open and receptive to these new tidbits and tricks, which are immediately written to permanent file storage.

That being said, my daughter has the ability to, while I am staring right at her, press buttons and make things happen on my computer that I didn't even know could happen, much less how to bring them about via shortcut. She conjures new effects, windows, and even programs right out of thin air without me being able to tell how she did it.

If this sounds like an exaggeration, know that even if you doubt my claim that I have never, ever exaggerated at all in my entire life, I am absolutely telling nothing but the straight truth right now.

And, just so you know, I'm not talking about old-school peanuts like holding down SHIFT for 8 seconds until FilterKeys comes on, I'm talking about stuff like this:

Now, users of the Opera browser might be familiar with this option, but I'm a relative newbie to it, and I'm only mostly sure that this dialog box came from that program. She summoned it, or possibly called it into existence entirely, this morning when climbing up on my lap for comfort while dealing with her fever, using only her heel! Her heel!!

Oh, how she mocks my confused desire to play apprentice to her wizened master.

A conversation with D-: I believe I can fly

Because I have to run, here's another blog post that wrote itself. I can't thank that kid enough for his conversational skills.

D-: Daddy! Watch! Watch!

Me (turning to see him crouched on the couch, ready to pounce): Don't jump on the couch.

D-: I'm NOT gonna jump. I'm gonna fly!

Me: Don't fly on the couch.

D-: I'm not gonna fly ON the couch, I'm gonna fly OVER the couch.

Me: ... And land on what?

D-: The blanket.

Me: Which is on...?

D-: The couch...

Me: ... Don't do it.

He later did it anyway and got in trouble, but let's instead focus on this whimsical evidence of his impressive grasp of the manipulation of semantics, which one day may rival my own.*


* This may give you a hint at how I got my nickname.

The secret life of pee-pees

This is a little window into what we're dealing with these days now that D- is really feeling his four-ness:

D- (laying down, shortly after waking up, on the opposite side of our L-shaped couch from where I was laying): Daddy, can you make me something to eat? I'm hungry.

Me: You know what you gotta do first? Go to the bathroom.

D-: But you didn't see me grab my penis...

Just as I was about to say, "You don't need to grab your penis before you know you have to go to the bathroom," he continued.

D-: ...M- was in the way! (she was standing at the coffee table between us)

So what had promised to be the beginning of another theoretical discussion about when one needs to sit down and try to use the toilet, changed instead into a very practical expression of confusion regarding what seemed to be my x-ray vision.

Times like these make me wonder how the first man toilet trained himself before it stopped being widely accepted for men to be covered in their own urine? Because all indicators I've seen point to us not much caring either way without repeated, or possibly continuous, intervention.

The answer, I suspect, lies somewhere with the existence and manipulative skill of women. So thanks for that (I guess), ladies!

The father of all days

Happy Father's Day to all the fathers out there. I hope your days are as nice as mine has been!

I figured I should take it easy today, this holiest of days, so I'll be short and as much to the point as my thinking patterns allow me.

This morning, I didn't get out of bed until almost noon, but before you get too jealous (though certainly a little jealousy is called for), you need to be aware that the long-term efforts of my lousy, perky children have resulted in my inability to sleep continuously past maybe 8:30 on the very best day. Persistence allowed me to at least nap a bit after that, though, and it was much appreciated.

Upon getting up, I found my lovely wife cooking up an entire loaf of french toast, because I had apparently mentioned last time (being the casual, prolific genius I am) that we could easily reheat some for easy breakfasts for the kids. And as usual, I'm nothing if not correct, so that makes this brunch a gift that will keep on giving for the next couple of days. It's almost enough to bring a tear to the eye of a lazy fellow like me.

I was then presented with an impressive homemade card conceived, dictated, and recopied by D-, largely celebrating his own superhuman exploits. The text is as follows:

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!
WE LOVE YOU!
D- FLEW TO THE COUCH. HE IS BIG! YOU ARE A GREAT DADDY. HAVE A NICE DAY!
LOVE, [family names]

Following the card reading, the morning came full circle when I was reminded of my own superhuman abilities as D- met his match in a persnickety piece of french toast. He frustratedly pleaded, "Daddy, can you cut my french toast for me? I can only cut it in worms."

And there you have the essence of fatherhood at a day-to-day level: Shout loudly and carry a sharp fork.

The one-eyed monster

For those of you who are new, who may have missed the earlier posts, or who just want to amuse themselves again at my expense should read my accounts of my 1-year-old daughter's attempt to blind me before continuing with this post.

Having had some time to think this all over, aided by TerriRainer's continuously referring to me as One-Eyed Dan for the past several weeks, and after becoming sick of seeing the old Draft post I had filled with unused one-liners and other tidbits from those two posts, I've decided to close the book on this traumatizing chapter of my life in one explosion of randomness.

I have come to believe that this assault was not an accident but rather a well-disguised act of revenge for my not having a bottomless supply of Goldfish crackers, about which M- had protested and threatened about a week before the attack. See me ignorantly passing along her blatant warning at the end of this post of quotes from our house.

Further supporting this theory is the fact that the assailant may be starting to feel her Sicilian blood. She comes from a people with a documented history of serving their revenge as cold as gelato, with all-natural marinara, shall we say.* Due to my side of the family, she also comes from a people known for drunken brawling, but guess which is the bigger threat in the long run?

In my time spent pondering the implications of all this, I've decided that I should probably wear an eyepatch over my remaining eye as a preventative measure. And actually, for the sake of the continuing recovery of my tender injured eye, I think I'll just go all-out and wear two.

Another quandary is that, as the world's newest Cyclops, would my arch-nemesis be Odysseus or Magneto? Or both? "Damn you, you sheep-stealing evil mutant mastermind!!" Nah.

I think that choice is decided by the fact that Odysseus has long since passed over the River Styx**-- I'm forced to go with Magneto. This means that from now on, I'll officially be lying in wait for the chance to sucker punch Sir Ian McKellan right in the throat.

Until that blessed day, however, I'll have to continue running through wistful montages in my head-- things I've seen with two eyes; my unblemished face while looking at stuff; me laughing at something undetermined with two good eyes (montages always include laughing scenes); me staring blankly at a computer for much of the day, blinking occasionally without an eye-injury-related care in the world; and so on.

The caption for all these montages would boil down to something like this (be sure to use your happy memory voice): "Remember all those times I looked at stuff and was able to more accurately judge its approximate distance from my face by using the impressions from more than one eye to create a composite image with reliable scale in proportion to said distance? Those were good times."

I was a fool to not see that back then. I was also a fool to not see the frisbee D- threw at my face the other day.

* That sounds disgusting, and yet it makes me hungry nonetheless.
** Domo ari-ga-to, Mis-ter Ro-bot-o.***
*** You're welcome. Now go enjoy the rest of your day irritating people with the awe-inspiring genius of Mr. Dennis DeYoung.

Editor's Note: Notice that I went through this whole post of tidbits without once mentioning pirates. It's just too obvious, and you know how I hate obvious humor.

Copy Editor's Note: Editor's Notes don't count as part of a post.

Teach a man to fish...

As I sit here typing a blog post while D- happily vacuums, I'm starting to think that Cinderella's stepmother was onto something. Cindy just had a bad attitude-- she wasn't a team player. Let's all do our best to investigate and rewrite that history for the stepmother's sake-- just because Cinderella got to become queen doesn't mean we should all have only one side of the story.

I mean, what became of all those loyal talking animals of hers? I doubt she would let them cramp her style once she had some human friends (and slaves). I'm sure there's some horrible dirt to be dug here, worth at least one Lifetime Original Movie and a big fat check.

Anyway, welcome back from Tangent Land...

Now that D-'s got vacuuming down, I just need to teach M- better broom-handling skills, and then we can all move on to mopping, scrubbing, and dusting.

It's the least they can do after waking me up (in tag-team fashion) this morning at 5:45 (hence this scattershot, sub-par post). On the bright side, I got to say goodbye to J-, I suppose. Still, I have a headache in my temples that is certainly not being assuaged by the sound of a plastic hammer banging a scrap of wood-- D- has finished vacuuming and moved on to simple home repairs.

Hmmmm... maybe I could stop handing him "pretend nails" on demand for him to "make magic with this wood" and instead hand him my drill, level, real nails, and all these pictures I'm supposed to hang. On second thought, I don't want them all hung 4 feet off the floor, giving him a step stool wouldn't be safe, and if I felt like helping him, I'd probably be doing it myself in the first place.

I'm a bad, bad, lazy person. But whaddya gonna do?

Gimme 10 Mommy kisses and 50 CCs of fairy dust, stat!

I've always known that kids have an imaginary world all their own, ever since I said goodbye to mine around 3 or so and began observing my peers much like scientific subjects, but I had no idea how far it really extended until now.

The other day, while desperately trying to finish doing our taxes once and for all (which is as difficult as you might imagine to do during the afternoon), my attention was called away to M- as she tried to insert a sticker into the Wii, possibly in an attempt to fish out the Cheerio she thought was still in there from a few days earlier. (I know, I know-- it's obvious now we're going to have to give up on the honeymoon and move the Wii somewhere out of her reach.)

Half a second after turning my attention back to the taxes, I heard M- say, "Uh-oh!" in a whimpering voice, holding her hand out with her fingers pointed awkwardly. Not as in bent or broken, mind you, just in a deliberately exaggerated position, trying to show me the back of her hand without turning her hand over.

I looked at her and asked what the problem was, and she held her hand out and said, "Uh-ohhh!" more insistently, starting to cry a bit more. It was clear she just kind of scraped or bashed her hand imperceptibly on something. But since she looked so cute and so dependent on me for rescue (this must be what mothers inherently recognize and respond to, I guess), I picked her up, kissed her hand randomly (not having any point of reference on where this injury was supposed to be), and then said, "All better!"

She stopped crying and laughed a little, reaffirming my dismissive theory, but she wasn't truly all better until D- got down from the couch (a.k.a. Toyland) and asked to see her hand for himself. She held her hand out in much the same position once again, and D- loudly drew in a deep, dramatic breath (I can't think of a way to spell it out, but we've all heard it). He then said, in a genuinely shocked and concerned voice, "Oh. My. Gosh!!!" as if she had fingers dangling off, flicking blood in every direction. M- looked very satisfied with this, though she retained the look of concern appropriate for someone who might presently die of gangrene.

I double-checked her hand as D- turned it over a couple times with a shocked look on his face, just in case I was insane, but it was 100% pure baby hand, with no sign of anything but cuteness. I felt like I was missing some kind of special gift to be able to see this horrible injury, like with those magic death horses in Harry Potter 5 (as my sister reads this I know she is stating plainly whatever they are called).

As you might imagine, all this lavish attention and validation of her concerns worked wonders, and I set M- back down for much more sympathetic hugs and kisses than I could ever manage with my bitter-old-grownup, reality-based worldview. Those two were made for each other.