Sometimes I start to think that I’m pretty fun. I can play Star Wars. I’m good with the Legos. I play sports. I sled. I pretend to buy things at pretend stores. I play Monopoly upon request, even though it takes about 17 hours. I’m fun, dammit.
Then John has a friend over and I remember that I’m not the least bit fun. I’m an old, crabby grown-up with little imagination and less patience. My outer-space-explosion sound effects are a disgrace and I never do hilarious things with food. You know who’s fun? Other six-year-olds.
On the other hand, I’m still the one that can reach the good snacks. So I’ve got that going for me.