She’s five – I thought. I also thought things like: She must have seen cable at Uncle Brian’s house. Now we’ll have to move. I never liked Uncle Brian much anyway. I thought things like that. Normal, rational things. Then I took a deep breath and feigned calm.
“A doobie is like a cigarette. People smoke it. Okay?” I pulled out my chair and she pulled out hers.
“If you smoke cigarettes you die,” she stated with the confidence of a Surgeon General.
“Yeah… pretty much. I guess that’s true, sweetie. Smoking can make you sick and some people even die.”
“Mommy says you die.”
“Yeah… So do you understand what a doobie is now?” I spilled a box of crayons onto the kitchen table and handed her a stack of construction paper, hoping the interrogation was over and we could draw together instead, or at least have lighter father-daughter conversation about, I don’t know, colors of finger nail polish she’s into this week or how to make a fart sound with your armpit. Anything.