Mischa: Bedtime for puppies. Come on, Tierce. Bedtime!
Me: You are just ga-ga over that dog.
Mischa: *scoops Tierce up and cradles him like a baby* No.
Mischa: Awww… look at da wittow puppy. *Carries Tierce over so that his nose pokes my ear*
Me: Yes, he’s a good little puppy.
Tierce: *martyred expression*
Mischa: It’s time to take da wittow puppy upstairs.
Me: Seriously. It’s kind of weird having a guy who looks like a Hell’s Angel, murmuring to their dog in baby talk.
Mischa: Ohhhhhh look, Mommy’s mad. We’d better go upstairs.
Me: I’m not the dog’s mother.
Tierce: It would still make me a son of a bitch.
Me: No, he’s my dog. Not my kid.
Mischa: Don’t listen to her.
Tierce: Oh, believe me, I try not to.
Mischa: Listen to Daddy, instead.
Me: Oh, please. Goo-goo, ga-ga, it’s enough to make you sick.
Mischa: You baby-talk him too!
Me: Yeah, right. Tierce, do I baby talk da wittow puppy?
Mischa: See! That’s baby-talk!
Me: I’m merely communicating with Tierce on an emotional level. You, on the other hand, are just being weird.
Mischa: C’mon Tierce, let’s go upstairs and put da puppy to bed.
Me: Yeah, Tierce, go upstairs with Daddy and put him to bed.
Mischa: You said ‘Daddy’!
Me: I was being facetious.
Mischa: That rolled off your tongue too well.
Tierce: Yeah, you’ve said it to me lots of times.
Me: You know what, just go upstairs. Okay?
Mischa: Fine. Let’s go, Tierce.
Tierce: Um, yeah. Let’s go. Great.
Me: Yes, Tierce, Mommy’ll be up there soon.
Me: Shut up!