The other day my daughter asked,"Daddy, are you going to a meeting?"
This was because I was dressed in something other than a hideous stained T-shirt and cut-off shorts.
"Not exactly, I'm going to school."
"Like me?" she asked, incredulous.
"Kind of."
She screwed up her face with concentration (like before she poops) and asked, "Who's your teacher?"
"Professor Danilovichski."
"Is he nice?" she asked me.
"Yes, he's pretty nice."
"Does he give you stickers?"
"No, he doesn't give me stickers," I told her.
"Maybe you should play nicer. Do I need to talk with him?" she said sternly.
"No sweetie. Grown-up schools aren't like that. He doesn't give anyone stickers."
"So what do you do on the playground?"
"There is no playground," I told her.
"Oh," she said, finally comprehending, "You were bad so you go to a bad school. You can have some of my stickers, to make you feel better."
What could I do? I'll be the only one in my class with Dora stickers on his economics textbook.
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