Steven was in the kid’s room telling her a bedtime story last night based on Cinderella. The wicked stepmother sees a mouse and screams, and he’s screaming – loudly – his best girly scream, which gets the kid screaming with him in delight. There’s enough intermittent, delirious primal screaming in the story to make me spit up toothpaste laughing in the bathroom (also known as the “den of tranquility”). And then, and I’m not kidding, they discussed vomit, and the consequences of vomit (“Did we have to wash everything?”).
The kid loves those @#%&% princesses, and one day recently she asked me if I was a princess. “No, I’m a Queen, and you are a Princess,” I wittily replied.
“Oh,” she said matter-of-factly, “And Daddy is my Prince.”
Happy Father’s Day to all of you guys who knock yourselves out making your kids (or someone else’s) feel happy and secure, (even if it requires epaulets and a cape).
Drawerspace In A Cluttered Mind 