What My Kids Don't Know Hurts Me

You Gotta Know When to Fold Underpants

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, has started to “read” the mail. Which basically amounts to pretending to read but really making it all up. The other day, she opened a piece of junk mail and read it to me. She got excited.

“It’s for me!" Belle said. "It says:

‘Dear Belle,

When you’re big, there’s always underpants and sheets to fold.

Sincerely,
Dora.’”

I folded my arms and looked at her. She’s always rubbing it in that she’s on Dora’s Christmas list. “Name dropper,” I said.

Belle—err, “Dora”—has a point, in that there are always chores waiting for you. Like last Sunday, Belle banged on our entertainment center. “Belle, do you mind?” I said.

She continued to pretend to fix it. “I need to get the screws loose.”

I looked up at the ceiling, sighed. “Well, you've already made my screws loose."

At least she’s getting to the age where she wants to help. She grabs my snow shovel with all her 27-pound might and grunts along with me. It’s moral support.

And that’s a lot better than when Belle and her 18-month brother, Johnny, are trying to jimmy the child lock on the knife drawer. I feel like I should just make a tape recording of myself saying “Belle, be careful… John, be careful… Belle, be careful…”

You know, kinda like the tape recording Ferris Bueller made to trick his school principal into thinking he was actually sick in bed when really he was leading a parade down the middle of Chicago.

Speaking of famous cities, Johnny recently pretended he was on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, putting his handprint into the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

Then he ran up to me and gave me a “kiss” on my nose and upper lip. His mouth was wide open, his drool hung to the floor and greenish-yellow ectoplasm dripped out his nose. I can't believe I got slimed!