Crocadoodles

“Hey Dad,” Gert called from the couch, her feet up after a long day of playing. “Let me tell you about my dream.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I was asleep.” Always a good start for a dream. It shows that it wasn’t an unwarranted hallucination. “I was at a restaurant with eggs. And the crocadoodles kept biting my toes! I told them to stop, but they kept doing it.”

“Wow. That sounds like a bad dream. What’s a crocadoodle?”

“A crocadoodle! They are green and they have sharp pointy teeth.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“They live in the water and they eat things,” she said, sensing my stupidity.

“Oh! A crocodile. Well, I’m glad they didn’t nibble your toes.”

“Yeah,” she said with a laugh. “CrocoDILES. That’s it. Heh.”

Damn. I corrected her cute pronunciation of crocadoodles. Now she won’t say it anymore. It was cute. I lost it. Now she’ll pronounce it correctly forever and ever. Because that’s the kind of kid she is. She’s a sponge for information and she never forgets anything.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have a Popstart?” That’s cute too. So, stupidly, I decided to correct that too.

“You want a Pop Tart for a snack,” I asked.

“No. a PopSTART. Blueberry please.”

With a smile, I toasted a Popstart. Good. I didn’t ruin it, like a fool.

“Thanks Dad,” she said, chewing on her Popstart. “You know, I realize that all of this processed sugar is not good for my metabolism and will probably increase my activity level before my glycohemoglobin bottoms out. But, trust me old man, it’s worth it for this fruity center.”