The backstory: I’ve a colleague who is a dad-on-his own with two kids: G, a clever 1st grader, and P, a handful of a three year old, also known in our hallways as Baby Hot Sauce, a name that nicely conveys the whirlwind that is P. I see them often, storming the halls of the Middle School on their way to their Lower School classrooms and generally wreaking havoc as 3 and 7 year olds are wont to do. I find them charming. Yesterday, they were in their car seats and ready to roll out for the evening when their dad realized he needed a ruler for G’s homework. He ran back inside to fetch the ruler and I kept watch of P and her brother. I leaned into the car and we talked.
Me: How was your day?
G: Good (involved with some toy and not all that interested in me).
P: Good (playing with an outdated cell phone and plenty willing to chat).
Me: Who do you talk to on your phone, P?
P: My dad. My mom. You. (Note that P and I don’t talk on the phone with one another).
Me: Oh yeah? What do you talk about?
P (looks at me intently): What’s your password?
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