My six-year-old, Sophie, was watching Spider-Man (I know what you're thinking, and, whatever) and when he rescues Mary Jane and swings away with her, my sweet one looked at me and said, "Spider-Man couldn't pick you up like that." My first born! The fruit of my looms!
One morning I was working in my office. Sophie woke up, came into the room, sidled up next to me, and started farting. I, slightly green in the face, looked at her and asked her to go downstairs if she was going to continue breaking wind, stepping on the duck, making the spider bark, flatulate, fart, or what you will. She looked at me and said sweetly, "I'm going to go downstairs and make Anna cough."
"Anna, find your shoes," I said. "I don't know where they are," she said. "That's why you need to look," I said. (We go through this routine every time we need to go somewhere.) And as I was readying my only begotten son, I saw Anna looking between her legs at the floor below her. She looked up and said, "Daddy, I looked under my butt and my shoes aren't there!"