Little did I know that while Metrodad, Laid-off Dad and I were pounding'em back, our kids were off somewhere trading notes, too.
The last few weeks, the kid's been giving me the Heisman stiff-arm. A lot. Whenever my wife's around, I apparently disappear, and the kid clings to mommy like glitter on glue swirls. [Ah, there was a day when that would've been "glitter on the bottom of your club shoes as you walk home the next morning." How times have changed.]
But things reached a zenith--or a nadir, depending--last night, post-bath, when I tried to enter the kid's room, and was treated to shrieks of "Go away, Daddy! Go away!" No, they were not cries. They were shrieks.
And just in case I was tempted to mope around for more than five minutes, thinking no, there is no more gut-wrenching thing to hear your child say, I hear a commotion from the bedroom, followed immediately by inconsolable sobs.
Turns out I hadn't pushed down hard enough on the lid on the new, disposable sippy cup , and when the kid went to drink it, she--and my wife, and the sheepskin rug--got doused in milk .
And what does the kid say over and over? It took us several rounds to decipher it, and does she even know what it means? "It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault."
 new as of this week, the previous batch having been disposed after 15-20 months of daily use, not bad at all.
 Organic Valley milk, btw, not Horizons--part of an experiment with knocking the organic self-satisfaction up another notch