My daughter had four wedges of a nectarine sitting in front of her on a Sesame Street plate. I asked her for “a piece.” Predictably, she said, “no” and “mine.” I asked again, and threw in a “please.” She picked up one of the wedges and weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. I repeated, “Can Daddy have a piece, please?” She stared at me for a moment, then looked back into her hand. She thought for a moment and then, with a kind of sly, self-satisfied grin, reached into her palm with her other hand and snapped off a tiny piece from the section she’d been holding. She then reached out to me with it. Her eyes were smiling like she’d just cracked some kind of unsolvable ancient puzzle… She isn’t even two yet, and she’s already tasted blood. I’m afraid that I may have created my own Moriarty.
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Still, you must be proud to have fathered a cunning and cagey child rather than a simple, kind-hearted dolt who would have just glad handed you a wedge with a puppy dog smile.
Last night, my little girl of the same age saw me kiss her mother. With her little face soured in scorn she barked,
Maybe your next comic could be a “Family Circus” type of thing….
The tip of the iceberg, my friend . . .
Are you gonna take that shit?
No. I refuse to take “that shit.”