While getting the dog some food, Gertrude noticed that there were crickets making a racket in the garage.
"Dad! Why are the crickets cricking during the day?"
"Why are they what?"
"Cricking. The crickets are only supposed to crick at night."
It was at that moment that I seriously, and I mean seriously, considered throwing off all of my responsibilities, loading the kids in the car and going somewhere completely unimportant but completely fun. Screw work, bills, and societal needs. My daughter thinks crick is something crickets do when they make noise.
Damn it, I have maybe a week before her language abilities develop past that. And last night she was laying in the grass, hands behind her head, staring up at the sky.
Screenwriters can't write kids like this. She's a once in a life time chance at exponential cuteness.
And yet here I am. And she's at grandma's.
Sigh.
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