Who’s Your Daddy

3 06 2009

This morning before the temperature reaches a majillion degrees, we go to the greenway.  The kids are rollerblading, I’m jogging with Elvis. And Roofie tells me that he wishes his first words as a baby were “I love you, mama.” If only we could rewind time.

So Juniper, ever the daddy’s girl, says “That’s not very nice. What about daddy?”

Roofie: Daddy? No. Who takes us skating? Who makes us breakfast and lunch and dinner? MAMA.

Of course, I’m beaming at this, even though I should come in with something more magnanimous, something along the lines of what my 11-year-old daughter is saying. But I’m ahead of them, so they can’t see my face, right? Beam, beam, beam, like a pair of Xenon headlights.

Juniper: Yeah, but…if daddy wasn’t here, we’d all be broke. No offense, mom.

Oh. Right. None taken.




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