I was fixing dinner a few years ago, chicken if I remember correctly, when I heard a shriek from my daughters’ room. I washed my hands as quickly as I could and rushed to the doorway. My younger daughter lounged in the middle of her floor, shrieking.
“What on earth is going on?” I demanded.
She looked up and smiled at me. “I’m playing.”
“There is no shrieking in the house,” I said, firmly.
She sat up and pointed at the toys. Her brother’s red toy dragon was holding Barbie in his mouth. She pushed down on its back, causing it to flap its wings and crunch on the poor doll.
“And what are you playing?”
Her eyebrows scrunched down, confused that I did not find this self evident, as she explained: “Mom! He’s a DRAGON. Dragons EAT maidens.” She paused, slightly concerned. “You wouldn’t want him to go hungry, would you?”
“Well, try to be a little quieter,” was all I could think of saying.
“Okay,” she said, and she turned back to the dragon and made it start munching again.
I went back to making dinner.
Really, what else was there to say?