Robert is pathologically averse to having his nails clipped. I suppose I’d understand if he had suffered some sort of toe trauma, but thanks to my superior surgical skill (honed by years of playing Operation), our little clipper has never drawn blood. My theory is that he resents the temporary immobilization as an affront to his inalienable civil liberties.
We’re also at the point where we tend to S-P-E-L-L everything, whether we N-E-E-D to or not, because the path of least resistance is to shield him from anything that could be construed even remotely as bad N-E-W-S.
This leads us to a snippet of tonight’s post-dinner conversation:
Me: “After he’s finished with his dinner, I’m going to C-L-I-P his N-A-I-L-S.”
My wife: “G-O-O-D.”
Robert: “And then I’m gonna E-R-P-I-V!”