The Damsel and I are doing our part to subvert gender roles: I am making dinner while she puts together an Ikea bookshelf with help from the Dude. The Dude will not eat the delicious cooked broccoli with basil, garlic, and just a hint of balsamic vinegar, but he will eat raw broccoli, for some reason. Help from the Dude often involves suggesting, then telling, then shouting for him not to put all the screws into one of his trucks and drive them around, but he is also incredibly enthusiastic. And when a three-year-old is enthusiastic, he isn't screwing around.

Mom: Okay, kiddo. I think we've got all the pieces out.

Dude: Right! What are we waiting for? Let's get started!

Mom: Uh... great!

Dude: We need a hammer!

Mom: I... I think we're okay with the screwdriver for right now.

Dude: But we need a hammer!

Mom: You may be right.

I come out with a plate of broccoli, and the Dude looks at me, steps back, and deliberately brings his hands down to his side before saying, in the deepest and most serious voice I had ever heard from him:

Dude: Sorry, Daddy. I have to build first.

To which there was no response other than an abashed, "Oh. Okay," and a retreat to the kitchen as my lovely wife tried valiantly not to laugh. I then took a moment to ring myself up on the price scanner and snip off my sales tag, since I'd apparently just been OWNED.

When the Dude and I came downstairs this morning, he insisted on taking me over to the bookshelf to show it to me. I answered his cries of "Look, Daddy! I did it! Isn't it great?" with as much enthusiasm as could be mustered at 7:35.

Putting together furniture. I swear he gets it from his mother.