Last night, Peter and Lil’ Man had a serious discussion on the merits of a clean bedroom. The following is a true and actual recount of said conversation as heard from the dining room (where I was clearing away the dinner plates):

Peter: mumble.mumble.mumble mumble mumble.

Lil’ Man: Oh. Mumble mumble mumble.

Peter: Grumble.

Lil’ Man: Well, mumble mumble mumble mumble.

Peter: Mumble mumble grumble grumble grumble. Mumble.

Lil’ Man: Mumble, mumble, mumble. Mumble, Sir.

Peter: Don’t patronize me, son.

I stopped for a moment to ponder whether or not an eight-year-old would understand the definition (and subsequent implication) of patronizing… Did I, at eight, know the definition of patronize?

Sure I did! Just as I knew that my mother couldn’t have any more babies because she’d had a tonsillectomy.