I turned to my two-year old son.
“Teddy, it’s time for bed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s 7:30.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because I’ll read you a story.”
“Why?”
“Because you like stories. Now, do you want me to choose one or would you like to choose?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be nice,” I said, with a hint of impatience in my voice.
“Why?”
“Because I’m your father,” I said as I grabbed his hand and began pulling him up the stairs.”
“Why?”
I stopped and glared.
“Why not?” I demanded.
Teddy paused.
“Okay,” he said.
And off we went.
“Teddy, it’s time for bed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s 7:30.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . because I’ll read you a story.”
“Why?”
“Because you like stories. Now, do you want me to choose one or would you like to choose?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be nice,” I said, with a hint of impatience in my voice.
“Why?”
“Because I’m your father,” I said as I grabbed his hand and began pulling him up the stairs.”
“Why?”
I stopped and glared.
“Why not?” I demanded.
Teddy paused.
“Okay,” he said.
And off we went.
