I really don’t need my daughter questioning my abilities as a provider

Everyone is a critic, you, little one.

While I was trying to put Charlie to sleep, you kept entering his room, dragging in a crate full of her baby dolls.

“Clara, I’m giving Charlie a bottle and putting him in his crib. You can’t be here! Just let me get him to sleep!”

“But this house is too small, Daddy,” you said with great earnestness. “We don’t have enough rooms. I’m trying to put all my babies to sleep, and I need to use Charlie’s room because all the other rooms have babies already!”

After some back-and-forth, I finally managed to extract you from Charlie’s room. But when I emerged fifteen minutes later, I found babies all over the house and was greeted by a further admonition.

“You can’t use the toilet, Daddy. Madeline’s sleeping there because we don’t have enough room for the Madelines. I had to use the bathroom. I can’t believe it.”

I pity the man who marries you, little one.