"Six and three quarters going on seventeen"

This is my SoCal granddaughter, Sophie, who is, as my mother would have said, "a little madam". I love her to bits, and I recognise in her stubbornness and occasional obtuseness, traits that made bringing up her mother, Sarah, such a psychedelic experience. In honour - honor? - of the Sarah-Sophie tussle, I occasionally post short mom-daughter dialogues - dialogs? - some of which follow here.

Sarah, being British, can't cope with mOmmy:

Death
Mommy, is Grandpa going to die soon?
Darling, I've told you a thousand times! I am Mummy!
Sorry, Mermy. What about Grandpa?
He is going to live for years and years and years.
Why?
I guess he's got nothing better to do, honey.
Is he still building nestboxes for moths, Mermy?
Eat you raisins, dear.

Indelicate, do forgive me (something like this dialog really happened):

Farting
Memmy, does Grandpa fart?
For heaven's sake, child, it's MUMMY, not memmy!
Sorry, M-u-u-mmy. Does he?
I expect so.
M-u-u-mmy, does Grandma fart?
Oh no, I'm sure she doesn't.
Why not?
Well, Grandma is a lady.
But you're a lady, M-u-u-mmy, and you fart..
Eat your carrot sticks, dear.

Sometimes, I am in the firing line:

Beard
Mommy, oops sorry, Mummy, why does Grandpa have a beard?
Ask him youself, sweetie.
Grandpa, why do you have a beard?
It makes me look wise.
Wise? You mean, like the Three Wise Men?
That's right.
Which one were you?
Eat your free-trade banana, dear

My Californian grandchildren are just beginning to get their head round the idea that I am Sarah's father:

Grandpa is your daddy??????????
Is Grandpa really your daddy, Mommy?
Grrrrrrr...
Sorry, I meant "Mummy".
Yes he is.
Oh. He's very old to be a daddy, isn't he?
He wasn't always old.
What happened?
Eat your broccoli, dear

American kids eating MARMITE??? It happens in San Diego! :

Boobies
Mummy, why don't I have boobies?
You do, dear, it's just that they're not very big yet.
Why not?
They grow slowly, like, erm, eggplants or zucchini
I don't want boobies like eggplants or zucchini!
Eat your marmite soldiers, dear.

Children always go straight for the jugular:

Red Wine
Mother, why does Grandpa drink so much red wine?
I don't know, dear. Ask him.
Grandpa, why do you drink so much red wine?
It helps to keep me young.
Oh. It doesn't seem to be working, Grandpa.
Eat your organic barleyfed chicken nuggets, dear.

The moment every mother dreads:

Boyfriend
Mommy, I got a boyfriend.
No you haven't, dear.
Yes, I have too! And I love him.
I see. What's his name?
I don't know. I haven't spoken to him yet.
Then how can he be your boyfriend?
I mean, I haven't told him yet that he's my boyfriend.
Eat your sun-kissed manure-fed orange segments, dear.