The scene: my car, taking Elaina (2 1/2) to preschool.
Me: [observing a driver ahead of me execute a boneheaded move]: Whiskey. Tango. FOXTROT.
Me: . . . .
Me: Uh . . .
Elaina: Daddy, why you say WHISKEY?
Me: Uh . . . let's sing. "I love you, you love me . . ."
[five minutes later, we walk into her preschool class]
Me: Okay, sweetie. Have a good day.
Teacher: Good morning, Elaina! Do you want something to eat?
Teacher: . . .
Teacher: Uh . . . .
Me: RISKY. She's trying to say risky. She's concerned that it's risky being so close to the fires.
Teacher: [melting] Oh, poor Elaina! Don't worry! You'll be okay! You don't have to worry!
Elaina: [Ever a drama queen, very adept at picking up tone, begins to pout her lip and quiver her chin]: Whiiisssskey. ::sniff::
Teacher: [heartbroken] Oh, sweetie! You're fine! You're fine!
Me: So, OK. I gotta go.
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