The scene: my dining room table, where I’m feverishly working on the latest writing project which seems of profound importance to me. Two-year-old daughter enters the room and stares at me, smiling.
Me: What is it, hon?
Daughter: (Continues smiling.)
Me: I know you want to play, honey, but Daddy’s writing.
Daughter: (Goes right on smiling.)
Me: If Daddy works real hard at his writing, and writes lots and lots of books, maybe someday he’ll make enough money to stay home — and then he can play with you all the time! What do you think about that?
Daugher: (After a pause.) I had a poopie.