On the drive in to gymnastics, 9-year-old Isabella is philosophizing.
Iz: Daddy, are there ever going to be flying cars?
Me: Someday, I hope. There used to be a cartoon, that…
Iz: Because, they would be very useful.
Me: I suppose they woul…
Iz: Because, then you could fly straight to where you want to go.
Me: Without all the stopli…
Iz: They already have cars that drive themselves now.
Iz: But I think they are probably pretty dangerous.
(She ruminates. I get a word in.)
Me: Oh, I don’t know. They’re probably better at driving than that idiot. (I point.)
Iz: Yeah, but there’s an idiot in the front seat of this car.
Me: I’m a good driver.
Iz: I didn’t say anything about your driving.
I look in the rear view mirror and see that she has that “I’m evil funny” smile slowly grow across her face.
Me: Hey, that’s not ni….
Iz: We’re there, Daddy. Bye. Drive safe.
Me: “Safely.” Not “saf…” (Slam.)