Are You My Daddy?

Yesterday’s post began like this:

“I take every opportunity possible to embarrass Sissy et. al. She’s nine and I’ve earned this with each eye I’ve tolerated.”

Today at the grocery store while passing the homliest male human carved by the hands of God, Baby et. al calls out at the top of her 3 year old lungs to this man while he is a mere 9 millimeters from us, “are you my daddy?”

Has she said this before? Yes. I have no idea why, but occasionally she asks me if random men are her dad. Backstory: I’m married to her dad. We conceived her within the marriage. It’s all the legit with this one.

He was alarmingly tickled to have been asked this question so we got nada from the chip isle (BOO!) 

Karma’s a bitch. So I didn’t embarrassed Sissey et. al again, right? It strengthens her character, right?

Yep. I doubled downed. Had to pick something up in the office when picking up Sissey et. al from school and on the way out (with the entire rest of the school) she asks, “what’s for dinner tonight?”

And I replied the same way every other mom in American is going to respond tonight when they pick up with kids tonight.  

“Don’t talk to me. I’m famous.” And Her et. al kept on walking.

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