Daughter: "Daddy, look. A frying pan with a smile!"

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Daughter, walking past this untitled tattoo parlour on Queen St. (its sign used to proclaim it "Domain of Pain") and peering in at all the designs up on the wall:

"Ooooh,  a sticker shop! I'm definitely going there when I get older."

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Five-year-old, frowning at the hussy on the left as we drive past this strip joint:

"Why is that woman pulling up her shirt? She should do something else. Like read a book!"

Dad: Wow! That's a nice car!
6-year-old: Which one?
Dad: The silver one, with the shiny crown on the front.
4-year-old: It looks like a fish. I don't like it.
Dad: Well, I like it. I'd like a car like that.
6-year-old: We don't need that. We have a car, and it isn't broken.

Scene 2: Later that day, it rains. Dad and 6-year-old buy a colouring book for the 4-year-old whilst shopping for groceries. They return home to give it to her.

Dad: Your sister and I bought something for you.
4-year-old: What is it?
Dad: Oh, just a little something for a rainy day.
4-year-old: Is it an umbrella?
Dad: No, not that. I mean, something you can enjoy on a day when it's too wet to go outside.
4-year-old: Is it rubber boots?

Scene 3: 6-year-old is describing her philosophy of art.

6-year-old: You know, when I draw triangles I make them not very pointy. That way nobody in picture world will get poked.

(4-year-old girl runs down the hall, smiling mischievously and holding a bar of soap above her head)

6-year-old girl: "Dad! My sister won't give back the Arkenstone!"

So when our kids finally outgrew our trusty Graco double stroller - too beaten to sell, but still roadworthy - we figured someone would find a home for it. Both our sets of grandparents bought used strollers to keep in their garages, and new ones are expensive, so why not?

Well, after a day on the sidewalk, it was no love for Graco. I figured it would be gone by morning, but instead ... somebody boosted the rims!

Of course then nobody wanted it without wheels, so it ended up in the garbage, where perhaps it was always destined.

It's not that I mind or anything - it was free pickings, after all - but I wonder what someone wanted the back wheels for? Maybe to replace their own bald ones? Making a cool go-kart? More power to you, whoever you are. But I had to snap a picture - the poor thing just needed some cinder blocks under the axels.

It's a squirrel catcher, of course. At least, it is to my six-year-old girl, whose current fixation is anything of the family Sciuridae. She chases them across the park, wants one as a pet (wants seven, actually) and is pretty certain she's a squirrel whisperer.

You may recall that she recently exhorted me to come to school to be on her "squirrel catching team". Well, apparently you can't catch squirrels without a squirrel catcher.

For weeks, she asked me if we could go into the basement to make a squirrel catcher. (It's with three parts delight and one part guilt that I tell you she has the same blind faith in my woodworking abilities as I had in my father - the difference being that he actually *could* make anything out of wood - furniture, canoes, secret rooms - whereas I just slap together some particle board and give it a fancy name.)

I was able to put her off for a while with lame excuses - we're out of wood, the wood store is closed, squirrels are out of season. And then one day she learned a new word, a magical word of power:

"Daddy. I have something to say. I COMMAND you to build a squirrel catcher. That means you have to do it."

Well, how do you argue with that? So I grabbed some particle board and a jig saw, and slapped this monstrosity together - a cartoon mouse-hole screwed to an antiquish Canada Dry box.

Apparently I got it right. I told her we'd go squirrel catching on the weekend, but she'd had enough of my excuses. The next day she told (commanded, probably) her babysitter to bring it to school with her so she could catch squirrels at recess.
So, she lugged the contraption to school and made her ed assistant put it out in by the baseball diamond - and she even found some peanuts to put inside. (Peanuts are of course verboten in all parts of North America that may come into contact with anyone under the age of 20, but these rules are flouted by the crazy old guy that feeds the urban fauna in the schoolyard after hours.)

She didn't catch any squirrels - but she did trap one of the teachers.

My daughter eventually tired of the way the squirrels loudly ignored the box, and she wandered away after them. But then the gym teacher brought her class to the diamond, and stopped short of the mysterious, abandoned box... stared at it, and concluded it must be...

A suspicious package.

She whipped out her cell phone and called the office, who called the custodian, who considered calling the bomb squad.

And then the poor ed assistant figured out what all the hubbub was, and owned up to the squirrel catcher.

The troops stood down, relaying the message that it "was just the ed assistant's squirrel catcher." That's now probably on her permanent record somewhere, and I fear for the next time she tries to cross the border.

I invited her to keep the squirrel catcher, but she declined. Let me know if you want it.

Amoeboid UFOs? Not exactly. Actually it was just my kids with some dollar store glowsticks. They waved them around in a dark hallway, and by simply turning the camera flash off, this is what I ended up with.

Sort of neat, though, don't you think? Best $2 we ever spent. Damned things glowed for two days, too.

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Thing One: Dad, we need new markers.
Dad: We do?
Thing One: Yeah. These are out of marker juice.

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Thing One: Hands up, who wishes they were Godzilla?
Dad: Me!
Thing Two, to Thing One: What about you?
Thing One: Nope.
Thing Two: Guess we'll have to squash you, then.

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Thing One, out of the blue: Ahhhhhhh!
Dad: What?
Thing One: I'm scared.
Dad: Of what?
Thing One: Spring.

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Thing One: Dad, I need you to come to school tomorrow.
Dad: Why's that?
Thing One: I need you on my squirrel catching team.

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Dad: If you have children, what do you think you'll name them?
Thing One: Cappuccino, and Streetcar.
Dad, to Thing Two: What will you call your kids?
Thing Two: Poo Poo, Pee Pee, and Bum-Bum Smell.

On the way home this time, she had an idea for overcoming Toronto's losing streak:

Dad, I have a secret idea for the Raptors but don't tell. We should tell them to practice 100 times! And then we tell the Hornets to practice only one time! And then the Raptors will win. Tee hee. And maybe because we teached them, the Raptors could even send us a thank you card!

I'm pretty certain none of the Grade 1 boys know what "sentient" means, and the kindergarten girls can be called "stylish " only if wearing pink rubber boots, pajama bottoms and your bathing suit is haute couture.

They all enjoyed the cupcakes, though.

(Speaking of Optimus Prime, I did rent the Transformers movie last week - effects good, writing schlock. But I couldn't hear "Optimus Prime" without thinking that a more timely hero/villain would be called Optimus Sub-Prime, chiz chiz. I even started to mock up a Photoshopping image to go with it, but then I did a Google search and found someone had already done it. Good on ya.)