The Ire of March

Scott and the band are playing at our house, when his laptop goes down. I fiddle with it, but can't figure out what's up. One of his band mates, B.J. Wood, gives it a shot. Emmie isn't having that.

"Dat's my dad's peeyooter," she tells him, scowling.

He grins and hops back behind the drum kit. But Emmie is not done with him. She approaches him and whispers threateningly in his ear: "I know karate."

This does not provoke the fear she had hoped. The band collapses in laughter, and she stalks out of the room, her indignation trailing behind her, dissipating into the air like smoke.

Poor Doodle. Such adult aspirations. Such tiny fists of fury.