Cracker misconduct

In the daycare parking lot when I extract the Ritz crackers from their plastic shield, I say to Lyla, "How many crackers?"

"Doo!" she says and raises both index fingers.

But this afternoon while we drove home, Lyla got her crackers confiscated for various offenses. Mainly it was that she was rubbing them together so vigorously that it created a cracker crumb storm, not unlike what happens when Edward Scissorhands carves ice sculptures.

She also clapped them together several times like chalkboard erasers, at which point I morphed into the archetypal dad who drives and simultaneously reaches into the backseat to discipline the child. "No more crackers."

"Caca!" she said happily.

"No caca."

"Caca."

"No caca."

The conversation continued without variation for half a mile. Then it occurred to me that I could give Lyla one cracker instead of two, and everyone would be happy.

I handed back one half-demolished Ritz.

"Caca!"

Now I'll have to teach her a new answer to the cracker question.

"Okay Lyla, how many crackers?"

"One. And then later, one more."

Might take awhile.