The Trouble With Educated Daughters

Do you believe in signs?

While sitting at my desk in the study recently, my daughter, Ellen, walked in and showed me her Spanish test. She had aced it, and was the only one in the class to do so.

Cranking up my vast expertise of the Spanish language (I took two years of it in High School, AND grew up in Southern California), I began looking it over. When I came upon the following phrase—"Es muy desordenado"—I asked what it meant.

Without a word, she pointed to my desk.

Frankly, nine weeks out of ten shows that chaos reigns on my desk. The fact that I have been traveling a lot and that the desk I have now is a lot smaller than the one I had a couple of months ago carried no importance with her. She was merciless.

I pursed my lips to hide a grin and said, "Are you trying to tell me that my desk is disorganized?" "No," she said, "It's very disorganized. Es muy desordenado."

"Gracias," I replied. "De nada," she said. (For those who are Spanish language impaired, our three word verbal exchange meant something like, "Ouch. You got me." and "Yeah, well, it wasn't much of a challenge, you big slob.")

Nodding my head toward the door, I said with as much fatherly authority as I could muster, "Adios, muchacha!" (Translation: "Maybe the door will whack your backside as you get out of my study!")

Why do I send my girls to school, anyway?!