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Bedtime. Husband and I are with the girls in their purple room. We negotiate pajamas and toothbrushes and storybooks. Per usual, the girls bide their time, running around, concocting fictional games to delay our nightly rituals.

We make soft threats. If you don’t put your pajamas on now, there will be no stories before bed.

Toddler ignores this and races to the corner of her room. Pulls her plastic laptop from the shelf. She brings it over, places it on the foot of her bed, and pries it open.

I need to order dinner, she says.

Uh oh. I look at Husband. We both crack a silent smile.

But your kitchen is over there, Husband says, pointing to their elaborate red wood play kitchen in the corner. You can make some dinner over there.

Not to be deterred, Toddler stays focused on the screen and pounds away at the keyboard. What do you want to eat tonight? She asks.

Oh boy. Here we go. As I have mentioned once or twice on this blog, I am not a good cook. And when I say I am not a good cook, I mean I do not cook. At all. Ever. This is terrible. I know. Worse than terrible. Most nights of the week, Husband and I pry open that laptop, peruse online menus, and order dinner. And then dinner arrives in a jiffy and we eat it.

Guess the kiddos have been watching. And listening.

Finally, we separate Toddler from her laptop and convince her to brush her teeth. But then. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it. Baby sitting on the floor. Hunched over the same plastic computer in a fit of intense concentration.

I need to order some food, Baby says. What do you guys want to drink?

Oh goodness. It’s time to get my act together, huh?

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Do you ever think about how your behaviors influence your children or how your parents' patterns influenced you? How often do you cook? What are some habits of yours of which you are less than proud? Have I already produced a pair of individuals who will subsist wholly on takeout or is there still hope?

Not Rich Enough

The Purple Tutu