We’re not sure whether we should be filled with pride or cower in fear. On our way to a Father’s Day breakfast, we and the girls had a huge disagreement. They wanted to get their Leapsters from my car, but Dad made an executive decision and drove off without them. We didn’t get out of the subdivision before the wailing began. We made it another half mile and turned around, calling off breakfast. The girls were angry, and we were disappointed and hungry.
Once inside, Simone demanded a piece of paper and a crayon. Without any help, she wrote “No Dads” on the sheet and asked for a piece of tape, which I gave to her. She posted the note on her bedroom door. Ken said the girls should apologize to me for their behavior, and they both obliged. Later I took them aside and said they should apologize to their Dad. Simone protested. I pushed, and she got another piece of paper and wrote “No Moms.”
Now that I think about it, this story sounds awfully similar to “Click, Clack, Moo: Cows That Type.”
As I write this, both signs are hanging on the door. We are proud that our daughter can write all of her letters and spell three words without any help from us. At the same time, we don’t know what to think of the fact that she thinks our household is a democracy. It is even a bit terrifying that we may be raising a writer. Given the recent implosion of the publishing industry, we aren’t so sure we like where this is going.
There is good news. The girls and I treated Ken to a Father’s Day meal around lunchtime.