The straps on the car seat were designed by NASA to prevent fiery crashes with interstellar objects, and no matter that it takes ten minutes of struggle to get the kid in, so I mutter under my breath.
“God aw-maiddy?” echoes back a cute little 2yo accent.
“uhh, yeah”. Distractedly, as I fumbled with straps, my mind racing. I live with fundamentalists, and just last week it was pointed out the kid is at the age where he's starting to repeat everything he hears—with a VERY INTENT LOOK in my direction. So I'm thinking, 'oh shit, now I've done it'. Sure enough, things didn't end there.
Oh shit, my 'distracted' ploy didn't work at all.
“He's an imaginary guy, we blame things on him.”
Sophisticated theology, ai haz it. It worked, though, his next remark was about the seat straps. Cat ass trophy avoided, for now.