"Did I squeeze your hand too hard?" I asked.
"Yah. That hurt!" Emma exclaimed.
Fast forward about fifteen minutes. I'm driving the kids to school, and Emma asks me, "Daddy. How did you give me an ouchy?"
It took me a few seconds to remember which ouchy she was talking about. The iron mace? The butane explosion? Oh yes. The toothpaste squeeze.
"I squeezed your hand too hard this morning," I answered.
"Oh yah," Emma recalled. "I'm going to tell the teacher you gave me an ouchy."
Holy social worker! What did she say to me?
"Why are you going to tell the teacher I gave you an ouchy?" I nervously asked.
"Because it was a bad thing to do," she stated smugly.
"But I didn't mean to do it," I pleaded.
"It was not nice to do, Daddy," she replied as I glared in my rear view mirror and imagined a seventeen year old Emma smoking a Virginia Slim.
"But it was an accident," I said as my closing statement.
Emma shook her head and simply stated, "It STILL was not nice to do. I'm telling on you."
Fast forward fifteen hours as I ask my blog readers if they could recommend any good lawyers for myself.
1 comment:
Ha ha..You should have said a meek 'sorry' instead..
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