Ambidextrosity, the Inquisition, minotaurs (conversations with a three-year old).

A 3- and 6-year old eat cereal on a camping trip. It should be noted that they are both sadly using their right hands.

False.

Hey Daddy, guess what?!
He cheerfully called out.

I looked around, and then up.
What?
I said dourly.

I’m left-handed!
he said enthusiastically, holding up his hand. The wrong hand, I might add.

No.
I shook my head sadly.
You’re not left-handed.

Well…
he said, obstinately refusing to let my reality check dilute his enthusiasm.
…I’m two-handed.

At that point, I had to reluctantly give him the smallest credit for creative pivoting and reframing, so I declined to answer, though I should point out that he is also, sadly, not ambidextrous, ambidextrous being the correct term he should have used.

Three year olds. Sometimes it feels like they know nothing.

Samson.

If I had longer hair,
he explained,
I would tie it in front of my face and make a beard.

But,
he said, twirling his long locks around,
my hair is too short. I wish I had long hair.

If only,
I said mirthlessly.

False again.

Slivers are the worst!
he said, picking away at some wooden object jabbed in his palm.

Actually,
I sighed, setting down whatever important thing I was doing,
there’s a little thing called “the Spanish Inquisition,” and there were much worse things than happening during this time period. For example…

…and we went on to have a lovely father-son chit-chat about Inquisitor General Torquemada and the state of Catholicism in the 15th century.

Or maybe I helped him with his sliver. My memory is fading.

But we don’t.

Oh look!
he said as we walked through a lovely Southeast Portland neighborhood.
I wish we had one of those pretty houses!

Well I wish I had a pet minotaur and a canoe,
I thought furiously, but instead smiled said yep, and squeezed his hand as we stomped through the rain.