A few evenings ago, J, N, and I were playing in the kitchen when C came quietly walking out of his bedroom. He took my hand, whispered "tigers" and led me back to his bedroom.

I said "tigers?" and he nodded. So we went to his room. He closed the door behind us without turning on the light, and then whispered into the darkness "tigers." He looked at me and smiled a huge smile. I know his was big because I could feel his hand tighten in mine. You know your smile is large when it causes your hand to squeeze.

I chuckled and nodded. "Tigers." He giggled quietly and we left, with him grinning from ear to ear.

After leaving me in the kitchen, he took J’s hand, whispered "tigers", and led her back to the bedroom. She looked at me, mystified.

She looked even more confused when she came back out. "Tigers? What tigers?" C didn’t look terribly happy either. I looked at him, smiled, whispered "tigers!", and then clapped my hand over my mouth as if I were scared. He burst out laughing.

J was even more confused.

Clearly she hasn’t been reading her daddytales. If she had been, she’d have understood. (Click here for the reminder). You see, C hasn’t brought up tigers since then. This was his victory over the tigers in his bedroom.

Of course, you being the astute reader that you are, you have undoubtedly realized that I’m now in a bit of trouble. Writing daddy tales is all well and good. Writing them instead of talking to your wife… well, that’s another thing altogether.

Still one could argue that if she’d read daddytales more often, there wouldn’t be any problem. One could argue that – but I won’t.