I like to think that I'm a pretty good father. Sophie gets a bath every day, she's got clean clothes and her hair brushed. I don't let her have too much candy and she always gets at least one book read to her at night before bedtime. Right now though, we're playing a little game. It's called How Many Pickles Can Sophie Eat Before She Barfs Like a Drunken Sorority Girl at a Frat Party During Dead Week?
My kid has a love of pickles that rivals Tony Montana's lust for cocaine in its sheer obsessive power. She would subsist on nothing but pickles if only she could open the jars herself, but alas, her little girl hands are too delicate and weak to unscrew the lids, and so she has adapted herself to the situation thus: "Daddy, I want pickle. Daddy, can I have pickle? Pickle! Now pickle for me! Pickle pickle pickle pickle PICKLE!"
Which brings me to our game. I've told her before that she can't eat nothing but pickles or she will get a tummy ache and be sick. She insists that I am wrong, that pickles won't make her belly hurt, and that I am in point of fact a poopyhead. So now we get to find out who is correct, the poopyhead or the three year old, as I give her the opened jar of Milwaukee's Baby Dills and let her go to town.
It's just like Thunderdome, only with pickled fruit instead of a midget on another dude's back (and yes, pickle=cucumber=fruit, not vegetable. Look it up!).
****Edit: nine baby dills. That was when she complained that her belly hurt, laid down on the floor and passed into a pickle coma. I am teh winnar!
