It is Triple-Play Thursday on the drive in to school.

Now, I love me some Doors, even though Jim Morrison died when I was, like, 6. (Hint, here comes Isabella, also 6):

Iz: Daddy… Who is Mr. Mojo Rising?

Me: That’s a great question, Honey. I’m not sure.

Then, Queen comes on:

Julianna (she’s 9): Daddy, what’s a “Fat Bottomed Girl”?

Me; Another great question. You see, some people have big butts… Hang on… “We are the champions, my friend.”

Iz: Daddy, you’re not a good singer.

J: Yeah, Daddy. Not a good singer.

I don’t care. I drop them off, then Tom Petty comes on. “’cause I’m Free. Free Falling.” No one judges.

But, fat-bottomed girls? They make the rockin’ world go ’round.

Helping Julianna (she’s 9) with her subtraction homework…

Me: Ok, Honey, it’s 6 minus 7, so you need to borrow from the “tens.”

J: Borrow?

Me: Sorry, Sweetie. When I was a kid doing math, we called it “borrowing,” but you go to a hippie art school.

J: Daddy, we call it a Progressive Set.

Me: Of course you do. Hippie.

J: Because, when you borrow something, you’re supposed to give it back. And, you really don’t do that with math. Give back.

Me: No, I suppose you just take. Like most kids.

J: What?… Like, can I borrow your brain?

Me: My brain?

J: Well, you don’t really use it most of the time, anyway.

Me: Have you been listening to Mommy again?

J: I promise, I’ll give it back… If you want it.

(Bonus points for whoever “gets” the Subject line.)

When I was growing up, the phrase “Girls! Girls! Girls!” usually referred to a Motley Crüe video or some other televised skank-fest that I always enjoyed (still do), but my mother chased me away with a broom (now, the wife does that. Not really.).

These days, I often find myself uttering that phrase, but the meaning is quite different:
Girls! Girls! Girls!
– Please stop hitting your sister,
– Please stop yelling.
– Don’t argue with me, put the Legos back in the box.
– If she keeps pointing at you, break her finger off.
– Why are you screaming?!!! I’m not screaming!!! Do you see me screaming?!!! Stop screaming!!!
– She’s copying you? Guess what, that means I have to hear this conversation twice.
– I can turn this car around and go home right now!
– Goddammit!
– Brush your teeth and put your pajamas on. Now!
– Do you not see the tears streaming down my face?
– No iPad for a week!
– You’re totally faking it. Give me a break.

As you know by now, I had shoulder surgery a few weeks ago. Last week, at a newly-christened 10-year-old’s birthday party, I began explaining my predicament to a few Moms. Then, Julianna (she’s 9) chimed in.

Me (to the the Moms): …No, no specific injury. Probably just too much throwing the girls in the pool over the summer.

Julianna (interrupting): Daddy, I told you to not throw me because you could get hurt.

Me: I know, Honey.

J: But, you threw me anyway.

Me: Yes, I did.

J: And, then I loved it. So I wanted you to throw me again. And, again.

Me: Yeah, I know.

J: So, really, it’s your fault that you hurt your shoulder.

Me: My fault? I was throwing YOU.

J: Yeah. Your fault.

Lynn (the most awesome Mommy of this Fun Time thing), is preparing Hors d’Oeuvres (yeah, I Googled the spelling) for the reception after a big Organ recital at Church. Cheese and crackers.

Mommy is double-checking everything. It all pans out.

Mommy: Ok, I need to get the cheeses to church.

Isabella (she’s 6): Hahahaha! You said Cheesus to Church! You meant “‘Jesus‘ to Church!”

Mommy: No, Honey. I said “Cheeses to Church,” because I’m taking some cheese… To, you know. Church.

Iz: Oh.

Mommy: Plus. I’m pretty sure that Jesus is already there.

Isabella (she’s 6): Daddy, will I ever move out of this house.

Me: Yes, Honey. Someday.

Iz (slightly panicked): When, Daddy?

Me: Don’t worry, Puppy. Not anytime soon. You’re good.

Iz: But, at some time I’ll have to leave, right.

Me: Sweetie… Please don’t worry about this. You’re 6. You have your whole life ahead of you.

Iz (flashing her devilish grin): Yeah… But… You don’t.