A friend of mine had my two daughters over for a sleepover, and she reported back about how wonderful they had been, and then told me all sorts of stories about their time together.
I smiled. Immensely.
Then I told the girls, ages seven and twelve, how so very well behaved my friend had said they had been, and how proud that made me feel as a father.
The eldest smiled broadly.
But the youngest scrunched up her face in disbelief.
“Good?” the seven-year-old said. “What do you mean good?”
“Well, about you,” I said, pausing to think. “Well, about you she said, well… She said you’re very funny.”
“Oh, okay,” my youngest said, her face relaxing. “That’s better.”