My kid is funny. I know, I know. So is yours. But mine is funnier. And cuter. Sorry, but some things are inarguable.
In fact, I am fairly certain my child is perfect. Alice is funny, smart, beautiful, profound, strong, and kind. Not necessarily in that order. Alice can also be an enormous stinker, but whaddaya gonna do? She’s four, so it seems fair to ignore the occasional stinkeriness.
For the record, I have my own theories about the biological predisposition to prefer one’s kin (and parental delusions), but I will keep those to myself for the time being.
My goal is to share only the genuine gems that come out of her mouth. I will do my very best to keep the merely bright and shiny examples to myself. No promises.
I clearly hover on the edge of obnoxious when it comes to telling stories about my kid. And okay, I occasionally cross over into the ultra-obnoxious. I admit it. Who am I kidding, I embrace it. In fact, I tell anyone who will listen that I worship at the Church of Alice.
Thus, the book of alice. It feels wise and a bit holy, no?