Aletheia keeps referring to guacamole as “broccamole.” Millennials ruin everything.
Aletheia: “When I grow up, I’m going to be an artist. I will artist every day and every night. I’ll be artisting all the time.”
Me: Aletheia, what are you doing?
Aletheia, from another room: Putting marinara sauce on my booty.
Me: (Please be pretend. Please be pretend.)
Aletheia just walked up to me with a pad and pen and said “Daddy, I need to chart what you are doing.”
Aletheia and I are home today, so I let her set our schedule. So we are going to:
- Watch a movie
- Go to the beach
- Go to the library to get a book
- Get pancakes
Aletheia: Daddy, you need to get up. Amiens took off his diaper.
Me: Ok, I’m getting up. [you know what’s coming]
Me: Aletheia, did Amiens poop in his diaper?
And the way that she said “yeah” portrayed exactly the mix of resignation and horror that I was feeling at the moment.
Aletheia: Daddy, come meet Birdie.
Me: Who’s Birdie?
Aletheia: She’s a girl who’s attached to a boy.
Me: That sounds terrible.
Aletheia: No, no, no. They’re just friends.
Aletheia: I don’t want to go.
Me: Neither did the Doctor, but he still had to regenerate.
Aletheia: [blank stare]
Aletheia: Why isn’t mommy eating dinner with us tonight?
Me: Because she’s at a restaurant watching the Carolina-Dook game.
Aletheia: Yeah, we don’t like Dook.
Aletheia: You know, daddy, some days we are fairies and some days we are not.