It's Not A Blog, Daddy. It's A Journal

LMJ: What was that sound, Daddy?
LJ: I think it was Mommy taking off her shoes.
LMJ: No, no it wasn’t.

This has become the recurring theme, like a techno beat heard by sober ears. It’s easy enough to ignore the first twelve or fifteen million times but then it starts to grate on my nerves. I understand that this is one of the ways LMJ, as a two year old, is establishing her identity and independence, and it would be easier if she let me ignore a question every once in a while, but if an answer doesn’t come toot suite the question gets repeated until an answer does come. Then the answer is wrong. I’m starting to get the real feeling that she thinks I’m a clown. MJ is giving LMJ a bath right now and a truck with knobby tires drove by. The above conversation happened, but my part was replaced by MJ saying she thought it was a truck with knobby tires driving by. LMJ’s response was, oh. Mommy knew what it was. Daddy’s retarded. My baby girl is starting to display chick like tendencies. I’m positive this all goes back to Adam and Eve pissing off the Almighty.

And your wives and your daughters shall torment you with constant questions only to doubteth all your answers and so that you may be driven to madness and early death, which thou shalt welcome.

That’s how I translate the Greek anyway. She asks me about the titles of episodes of her favorite shows, and when I READ them to her, she tells me nooooo or tells me no and corrects me with what she thinks the title is. One of us is literate, the other is LMJ. It’s like an absurdist comedy, maybe a circle of hell that Dante left out. MJ and I switched places, and while I was watching LMJ play in the tub an airplane flew over head, guess what happened. I don’t know if I can handle this for another sixteen years. One day I’m going to show up for dinner wearing an overcoat and strapped with explosives.

LMJ: What’s that, Daddy?
LJ: It’s C-4
LMJ: No Daddy, it’s Semtex.
KABOOM!!!