Flipping through the channels, Isabella (the five-year-old) stops me:

Iz: What’s that?

Me: Um….

TV Narrator: Introducing… The Miraculous GENIE BRA.

Me: Well, I guess it’s one of those… things.

Iz: Wait. What are they for?

Me: Well… I suppose comfort and support. I don’t know how it works. Lifting? Separating?

Iz: Ooo! I want to watch!

Me: You want to watch the chesty women?

Iz: Yeah. I like the colors.

Me: Ok. I’m good with that. If you insist… We’ll watch the chests of women. Please quit twisting my arm.

Isabella loses interest after about five minutes. Which is well before I lose such interest.

Iz: I like the colors.

Me: They’re called “pastels.” They’re new.

Uh-Oh. A Women’s Zumba infomercial is next. I’d hate for Isabella to take interest and want to see that. But, I can’t quite find the remote. Where is that thing?… Dang.

Odd thing when your five-year-old is having a nightmare. You rush to her bed, panicked:

Iz: (Moan). Owwww…..

Me: Honey… What’s wrong? What hurts?

Iz: The pool is too deep…

Me: You’re in bed, Sweetie. Not the pool.

Iz: It’s raining too hard.

Me: It’s Ok, Puppy. Clear skies. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up, Honey. Wake up.

Iz: Yellow.

Me: Uhhhh…

Iz: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: Oh!… Go!

One flush later, suddenly everything makes perfect sense.

Snuggle time:

Isabella (the five-year-old): Daddy! You said you would watch this with me!

Me: I don’t want to see anyone’s butt.

Iz: Yes, but… I’m not talking about just anyone’s butt. It isn’t even square. Even his pants are square.

Me: If you say so, but… Sorry, Sweetie, I’m on record as consistently preferring a basic round-ish butt. Never square.

Iz: But, Daddy! It’s Sponge Bob! SQUARE Pants.

Me: Yeah… As, I said, I prefer rounder butts. Much rounder. 70 degrees at worst.

Iz: It’s his PANTS!

Me: I don’t care what you say. I prefer them round. However roundly round. It’s a personal preference.

(Another TMI post, I know.)

She says: I want to wrap my legs around your face.

Me: No complaints here.

But, before you read anything further into this:

Isabella (she’s 5) and I are in the hot tub. She wants to play “Where’s Isabella?” A game where she climbs on my shoulders and I spin around “looking” for her.

Iz: I want to wrap my legs around your face.

Me: Ok, Honey. But hurry up and let me find you. I’m old. You’re killing my back.

Iz: Are you over THERE?! (I spin.) No… How about THERE?! (More spinning.) How about OVER THERE?! (Owwwww!)

Me: Please, Honey. You’re killing me.

Iz: Oh, there you are! Next, can we play “Where’s my Butt.”

Me: Wow. No. Sorry… No.

Sometimes, as wonderful as Parenting is, picking up the girls from school goes something like this:

Isabella (she’s 5): Daddy, where are we going?

Me: The grocery store.

Iz: Today, at PE, there was a ball…

Me: Hold on… There’s a red light. Gotta turn left. Please wait.

Iz: And, the ball bounced blah blah blah blah, then, I ran blah blah blah. And Sasha caught the ball….

Me: Sorry, Honey, trying to turn left against traffic. Looking for cars.

Iz: And, blah blah blah. Red ball, not Blue. But, it was Bennie’s ball, but not really, because it only bounced twice, not three times, in the Magic Square…

Me: Not listening.

Iz: But, in the Magic Square, only Blah blah blah. Get some lettuce.

Me: Seriously, Honey. Shhhh. Fighting traffic.

Iz: Then, Blah blah blah.

Me: Crap! We almost got T-Boned by a Dodge Durango at 45mph. Please! Stop talking!

Iz: And the lettuce.

Me: Yeah, I got it. Lettuce…

Tucking eight-year-old Julianna in to bed last night… (and, this was TOTALLY unsolicited):

J: Daddy, I’m glad you invented Daddy/Daughter Fun Time.

Me: That’s great, Sweetie. Why is that?

J: Well, you give advice to younger daddies because you’re so old.

Me: Ok, first of all: I’m not “so old.” The correct term is “beaten-down-by-life.”

J: Yes. That.

Me: And, second of all. I do NOT give advice. In fact, giving advice is absolutely against the rules at Daddy/Daughter Fun Time. Read the rules… (Reader, please click the “No, Not Here” tab up top.)

J: Yeah, but, if someone wanted to climb Mountain Everest, you would tell them not to.

Me: I would? Why, Honey?

J: Because, they could slip and fall and break their bones, and (dramatically): They Could DIE! … HORRIBLY!

Me: Yeah, it’s dangerous.

J (growing more and more concerned): Daddy, please tell everyone NOT to climb Mountain Everest! People will listen to you!

Me: Not really, but… Will it help you fall sleep?

J: Yes.

Me: Deal.

J: Zzzz.

———

Gentle Readers: Please, do not attempt to climb Mt. Everest. You could fall, break your bones and die. Apparently, horribly. And, that would be bad.

Or, frankly, go ahead and climb it. It’s up to you. You’re Choice. Your Decision. Your Call.

Remember… No Great Achievement has ever been born to Mediocre Advice.

Crap. That’s sounds like advice… Damn.