I fully expect to be resented for this, years from now.

But for now, he's two, and can't really do much about the way I dress him. Other than give me the hairy eyeball, which he's pretty good at already.

Meet "Daddy"

About a week ago, as we were engaged in the whirlwind and chaos that characterize every weekday morning, while I play (quite convincingly) the role of "Sargent" in Get-To-School-On-Time boot camp, I overheard something perplexing, and perhaps even a little alarming. Wonderboy, Princess S and Bubs, all in collusion, discussed tucking "Daddy" in snug with a square of toilet paper, and then bid him farewell for the day. And every day since then, "Daddy" has been around, just lying on the floor or maybe kicked under the dining table. And when he's separated from his toilet tissue for very long, because maybe I've tossed it in the trash in a futile effort to keep at least the illusion of tidiness alive, it's eventually replaced by one of my three little people - though I never seem to catch him or her in the act, so I don't know who's most responsible for the general care of "Daddy". But aside from the kind offering of the toilet paper, he's pretty much ignored for the most part.

It does raise some questions, though, doesn't it? For instance, why the need for a surrogate Daddy? And why one so...I don't know...wooden? One with a smile permanently affixed? He's certainly a quiet fellow. And he doesn't seem to mind when the little people practice the 50 yard dash across our kitchen, living, and dining rooms. Goodness, he's a cheerful and tolerant little man. All 1.5 inches of him.