I. The past few days, Julia has been saying that, when she grows up, she wants to be a ballet teacher "for partly" and a "rock 'n' roll teacher" for the rest. (No, she hasn't seen School of Rock.) Today, driving home, she added that she'd also like to be a banjo teacher. In other words, she's just an M.F.A. away from performance artist.
II. Saturday at breakfast, Julia exclaimed, "Daddy, look! Can you do this with your fingers?" I looked over to find her flipping the bird right to my face, like some sort of put-upon celeb confronting a paparazzo.
III. Julia has been enamored lately of a magazine story featuring a character named "Max Mole." If you can say that out loud without thinking of a certain seven-letter curseword, you're a better person than I am. As is routine in these kinds of situations, Julia complements the story with extended role-playing games, and I'm invariably Max Mole. I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing when she yells excitedly, "Daddy, you be Max Mole!" so quickly that it sounds just like, "Daddy, you [curseword]!"