I played my eleven year old daughter in front yard soccer. She scored a goal and made a symbol with her fingers that made something resembling a G and a P. “Girl Power!” she said. I tried it with my decrepit fingers. Trying to make a reference to arthritis, she said,
“It looks like you have angitis.”
When my wife and I walked back into the house after our seventh grader’s track meet, she said,
“I feel like I forgot to pick someone up.”
My eleven-year-old daughter was frustrated one morning before school. Her brother was already ready and out the door to school. She had changed clothes in the laundry room beside the kitchen once she realized it was too cold for a t-shirt and shorts. As she was putting on her shoes on the couch, she said, “Please do something for me!” I replied with, “Yes, ma’am. What can I do to help?”
“Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ I’m not a ma’am!”
I was scooping hardened bacon fat from a small bowl into the trash.
“What is that?” my eleven-year-old daughter asked.
“Something delicious,” I responded.
“Really. What is that?” She reiterated.
“Animal lard,” I said.
“That’s not delicious,” she replied.
“You need to have your taste buds checked.”