Klara is so used to hearing that papa is at work that now she calls him “Papa work.” Even when he’s sleeping, he’s “Papa work.”
Finally, the sheer injustice of it got to me. “Mamma works, too,” I informed her.
“Work?” she said. “Work papa.”
“Mamma works!” I said. “I just made tapta soup. And did laundry. And folded. And picked up this mountain of toys. Mamma work!”
“No,” Klara said. “Papa work. Work papa job.”
“I also have a job!” I hollered. “See this book? I wrote it! Mamma work!!! Mamma job!”
“Mama llama?”
“No! Klara’s mamma! Me! Work!”
“Papa? Papa work,” Klara concluded. “Mamma nose. Mamma eyes. Papa job.”
It feels like I lost this argument for the moment.
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