Installment number two of this month's conversations with my daughter. Also, in case you're confused, this comic is mostly connected by the way my daughter tells me to calm down.
I spent the morning chopping at a stump with a mattock, and when I came back I stripped off my disgusting shirt and chased my wife and daughter, trying to give them hugs. I got The Look from my wife, so I stopped chasing. But I decided to turn the melodramatic tables on my daughter.
Addison (pointing to my belly-button): What is that?
Me: A little piece of schmutz.
Addison: You need to get it out.
Me: I can't. You do it.
Addison (a disgusted look on her face): I don't want to touch it.
Me (falling on my knees): HELP ME!
Addison (backing away): I can't.
Me (arms thrown back, shouting at the sky): FOR! THE! LOVE! OF! PETE! GET IT OUT!
Addison (approaching to pat me on the shoulder): Calm down, dad.
Me: GET OUT OF MY BELLY! GET IT OUT! AAAAAAAHHHHHH!
Addison (holding her hands up, palms towards me, placating): It's okay, dad. It's okay. Just take a shower.
Me (sighing): Okay.
Me: Guess how many people saw my comic?
Addison: How many?
Me: A million.
Addison (exuberant, clapping hands): SO MANY!!
Addison (suddenly nonchalant): I have a pretend comic.
Me: You do? What's in it?
Addison: It has Barbie and a dog. Just those. But there was a gorilla too, and that's all. Lot of people saw my comic too. Probably about a million, or more than that.
Me: Are you one-upping me?
I knew I could count on my three-year-old to crush my self-esteem. I mean, keep me humble.
Just had a long conversation with my daughter about why, when you hurt yourself, it doesn't really help to hit the offending thing. You know, 'cause you could break your hand or something.
Addison (demonstrating a very delicate remonstration): But if I just hit it gentle, like *this* then it won't hurt so much.
As long as it's a gentle rage you direct at inanimate objects, kiddo, I won't offer any criticism.