Daddy, I object!

All modern fathers will tell you that little girls go through four distinct developmental phases by the time they turn 5: fairy, princess, High School Musical and trial lawyer.

Our 5-year-old is nimble, light on her feet. Once court’s in session she can duck and dodge for hours on end, bobbing and weaving around the sturdiest rock of reasoning.

“Just choose an outfit and let’s go! We’re late!” I’ve often blurted at 7:59 a.m. “Look—why not wear this dress? Mommy bought it for you special, and she loves it.”

“Well, I know it’s a lovely dress, and I do love it,” she’ll say cunningly. “But I just don’t love it today.”

“Then what about this one?”

“But Daaaaad! It doesn’t match with my shoes. And you said I shouldn’t wear things that don’t match because Mommy will veto you again.”

Where does this independent streak come from?

Her mother, bless her heart. She could have gone to law school but chose instead to be a teacher by day, brilliant home-litigator by night. My wife relishes a good argument the way a normal human savors a slice of pie or a cool pillow on a warm night.

She recently argued with me that summer does not begin on June 21, but rather on some prior, unspecified date because school is out long before then, and it’s just too hot to be spring. This from the daughter of a scientist!

Still, my wife’s like a first-year law student in our kitchen-courtroom once our little Mary Olive Fearsome gets rolling.

If you zig, she zags. You go on the attack, she backpedals long enough to lure you into a logic trap. And if you tire or run out of reasons, she’ll just keep right on spelunking, searching for a gap in your resolve. If only she’d use her powers for good!

When I was a kid there was only one reason, and it covered all eventualities.

Why can’t I go play outside? Why can’t I stay up? Why do I have to clean up?

Because.

If a wave of generosity swept over my father, a grand master in the traditional parenting arts, he’d expound for my behalf in much greater detail. “Because I said so.”

I vowed never to say that to my kids. Yet now, in the courtroom kitchen that is my life, backed against the cabinets of reason by my tireless 5-year-old, I resort to that age-old parental stand-by.

The words cause my daughter’s sweet little face to sag, and a wave of self-loathing courses through me as she trudges to her bedroom for an obligatory 5-minute timeout.

But soon she’ll emerge contrite, gentle and re-armed for battle.

“Daddy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. You’re the best daddy ever.”

And if there were a jury in my kitchen, they’d take her side every single time.