Tonight, 6:36 pm. At the dinner table, Hazel is absent-mindedly kicking my leg. My shoes are on.
"Momma, do your feet hurt?"
"Why? Why do your feet not hurt?"
Stumped. Not sure where to go with this. Thinking, but nothing is coming.
"Momma, you better take your shoes off."
"So your feet will hurt."
I obey. There is no arguing with three-year-old logic.