The “rendering dad speechless” edition.


Setup: V loves getting the mail and always wants to check it, regardless of how many times that day we’ve made the trip to the mystical mailbox at the end of our driveway.


(V): “I love mail”

(Me): “What’s your favorite kind of mail?”

(V): “Blackmail!”

(Me): “……….”


Setup: Poor V fell in the tub, landing on the ledge ribs-first.  Although she was soon climbing and hugging, our triage nurse recommended we go to the ER to get x-rays just to be safe.  At home, V was very excited to have “a special picture taken of her chest.”  She was less enthused when the doctor actually came into the room (cue hysterical crying).  After a brief examination (and concluding that being able to wake the dead and wrestle him pretty much ruled out injured ribs), he felt an x-ray was unnecessary.  At home:


(Me): “So honey, why did you get scared when we went to get your special picture taken?”

(V): “Because I didn’t want him to do it.”

(Me): “Well, who did you think would do it?”

(V): “Daddy!”

(Me): “I can’t do that honey, I don’t know how. But don’t worry, we won’t let anyone hurt you at the doctor’s office.”

(V): “But I just don’t want to.”

(Me): “Well, we don’t have to, so don’t worry about it for now. But sometime if you get hurt we might have to go back.”

(V): “I don’t want an x-ray because we’ll have to pay for it!”

(Me): “………..”